Godey's Lady's Book And Magazine 1884-03: Vol 108 Iss 645

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2. By pt this dom in wish | » have uch of ares of Lronger n their ? You, | a peb- ld, you nee be- its lux- cheeks. walked eaking. myself, , think I spoke he hope out of neans | yt know id you re? If when | cut off you, but han his n of bis enrietta om her yuld not at it is plan fo ture 1 use my urs. ill trust She had spoke: say t ie.” ttle? | t sound h,” said u me THE NUT-BROWN MAID. 227 you pity me so much, you would marry me to keep me from a hard life?” “Not quite,” he answered, smiling. “Or, in my fear of what is before me, you hope I will marry you to escape?” “Wrong again.” “Then I give it up. I do not under- stand you,” said Agatha, turning away. “Not understand that, loving you, I would take you at all risks! But per- haps I am not the only one—perhaps there is some one else who will wear your glove in full view of every one, now that you are no longer the heiress?” “If it is only a question of a glove, here are both of mine;” she answered, not avoiding his look, nor yet returning it, “I suppose I shall have little need of them in future. I do not fear to draw them off; but I do shrink from laying dainty fingers into an honest man’s open hand, catching at it for fear of a life hundreds of women live, and are happy in.” “Tt was rather quixotic in me to think I could help you,” said Robert, bitterly. “T should have remembered—” “You should have remembered?” “ How old were you on your last birth- day, Agatha?” he asked, as if he had not heard her question. “Twenty-one? Of course, I remember we had a ball, and you had neither dance nor word but for Norman.” “You have a good memory for trifles,” Agatha remarked, with a shrug of her shoulders. “Where you are concerned. No doubt you think Norman learned that night to keep step with you.” “We both dunced to the music,” she said, demurely. “ But there is no more music now.” “So Norman and I are out of time. How kind to warn me of it! Certainly, in my downfall I boast of one disinter- ‘ested friend. You would marry me to help me over a hard place, and teach me to distrust a friend, lest I might take him for a lover who has never given me a hint that he is.” “Do you mean me really to believe that, Agatha?” asked Robert, eagerly. “As you please. It cannot matter to me.” “But it may to me.” “I think not. It is well to be honest even if one is uncivil; and I tell you frankly, there is no alternative I would not take, rather than marry you.” She did not make the declaration un- gently, but, as she said, frankly. _And— after the first moment, when there was an angry fire in the sidelong glance she did not turn to see, but walked on, uncon- scious of—he seemed to take it in the same spirit. He stopped her where the path opened on the lawn. “T am a patient man, and can wait. You need not look contemptuous. I have my answer for the present. Shall I tell Aunt Henrietta that you will see her? At least, you will let her help you, if only by her advice. You do not refuse to shake hands, Agatha, to show you bear no ill will.” Twilight had deepened into night, when Agatha came back to the house. Jenny was evidently watching for her in the hall. “Are you afraid I will escape up- stairs?” asked Agatha. “I'll keep my promise, and take tea in the library.” “Your headache—?” “T forgot I had one,” Agatha answered, honestly. “ And, Miss Agatha—” “And what, Jenny? You are not go- ing to ask anything more of me, I hope.” “Only Mr. Norman called.” “And you sent him away? Why didn’t you tell him I was in the grove?” “ Because Mr. Robert was there.” “He will think it strange I should see Robert Morse, and not him.” “So I asked him into the library.” It was dim enough ; but Norman’s ex- pectant figure could be seen turning from the window at the opening of the door. He came forward, and took her two hands in his, and led her through the twilight to the sofa. “Was I wrong to come, Agatha?” he asked, not quite steadily. “No. Jenny insists I shall come back to life; and it is more natural to see you here, than any one else.” Jenny was some time in sending to light the gas, so Norman and Agatha had a long quiet talk in the twilight. They went back to the old days, and after awhile Agatha spoke of her aunt. Nor- man had loved her as if the connection were a tie of blood between them: Agatha felt he had a right to grieve for and talk of her. He had been almost

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228 THE NUT-BROWN MAID. as much at home at Ashleigh Park, as Agatha herself. Neither mentioned the future. They dwelt on the far-off past; and Agatha told Norman of some of the occurrences of the last days before her aunt’s death. It was not difficult to speak of them to one who listened as to something sacred. Cuaprer II. “Through the pass of By-and-by, You go to the valley of Never.” “Jenny, there is no use in waiting until next week to make our plans for leaving here. We can do it to-day.” “Hadn’t you better send for Mrs, Hartley and Mr. Robert, and talk over the matter with them, Miss Agatha?” “You and I, Jenny, as the only ones concerned, ought to be the best judges of what we like.” “It’s always easy to say what you like—” contended Jenny, “but what’s best, is a different question. A fool can tell which of two roads looks the pleas- antest: but a wise man asks which will bring him where he wants to go. Let your old friends help you. Drop one here, and another there, and you may chance to end without one.” “I do not intend to drop them: only to walk my own way.” answered Agatha. “I have decided to go into the smallest house in Ashleigh. Mrs. Hartley will say boarding—” “Td not do that.” “Of course not. But perhaps you would prefer the plan Robert proposes,” said Agatha, demurely. “He wishes me to go to his house. I don’t know whether he included you in the bargain or not.” “ You’d never think of it, I am sure, Miss Agatha. I thought Mr. Robert had better sense than to ask such a thing.” “T thought so too, but it seems he hasn’t.” “He must have known you could not: stay there,” continued Jenny. “ He did not ask me to stay, if you mean by that to visit, Jenny. He wished me to marry him,” explained Agatha. “Task his pardon. He’s not as sense- less as I thought him.” Then she added meditatively: “Mr. Robert’s is a good house, and it is well situated. And small houses are always in out-of-the-way parts of the town. And it’s well-furnished,” Jenny went on. “ Which, our house or Robert’s? Nor- man told me—just by chance, Jenny—that my chamber and morning-room furniture belongs to me, as Aunt Agatha gave it to me on my birth-day. See, there comes Mrs. Hartley’s carriage up the avenue, I shall ask her to take me house-hunting at once.” “And don’t be too downright, Miss Agatha. If Mrs. Hartley’s bent on looking at fine houses as weil as little ones, it’ll do you no harm to glance at them. She’s nothing to do, poor soul! And a morning spent in busy looking is a comfort to her. Older people have their crotehets as well as children, and like to be humored too.” “What an old hypocrite you are, Jenny!” replied Agatha laughing, as she went to meet her friend. It was certainly a most tiresome morn- ing. Mrs. Hartley, as Jenny had hinted; was in her element, and thoroughly en- joyed house-hunting. She had a long list of desirable and undesirable houses, and insisted upon seeing them all, and then discussing them, bringing Agatha home with her to luncheon for that pur pose. There were more voices in the matter of her future home than Agatha had expected. First Robert dropped in; and soon after, Norman followed him. “You look tired out, Agatha,” Nor- man said, as he caught sight of her weary face, the whiter fur the crepe veil she had put aside. “ House-hunting is fatiguing work, and we have gone over a good deal of ground to-day,” Mrs. Hartley answered for her. “A good deal of unnecessary ground, I dare say. A house one must have, 4% one cannot live in the street—” began Norman. “And Agatha cannot live in any house in any street,” interrupted Robert. “ It is needless to run counter to approved opinions on such matters.” “ That is just what I say,” replied Mrs. Hartley, delighted at the prospect of an ally. “If I had let Agatha have her own way, she would have spent less time in looking for a house, than most gitls consume in choosing a hat. And after all our trouble, she is bent on taking # mere box, in a street I never heard of. I tell her she had better make a sacrifiee in nel Jar if | ne the che leg wh out ‘

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1ished,” ? Nor- y—that irniture gave it e comes avenue, hunting it, Miss cht on is little lance at r soul! king is e have “on, and yu are, , as she » mort- hinted; hly en- a long houses, li, and Agatha at pur- in the A gatha ped in; \im. ” Nor- > weary she had rk, and ground or her. yround, lave, as began n any Robert. proved od Mrs. t of an ve her ss time st girls d after king & ard of. acrifiee THE NUT-BROWN MAID. 229 in some other way, and live in a desirable neighborhood. To be sure, the rents are large; but one is so apt to be forgotten if one lives round an objectionable cor- ner.” “ A large house with a dozen rooms for the mice and spiders, and bread and cheese for dinner, seasoned with the privi- lege of being remembered by people for whom an objectionable corner blots me out of their recollection !” “But my dear Agatha, you don’t know the inconveniences of a small house. I am not so sure boarding will not be better for Agatha,” remarked Mrs. Hart- ley to the two men. “Not only on the score of economy it may be wiser, but for other reasons. It is at least unusual for a young girl to set up housekeeping—” “But with such a dragon as Jenny on guard, Agatha need not fear,” interrupted Robert. “ Besides—” he continued, as if quite forgetting that the girl was sitting opposite him—*Agatha’s mourning will prevent her receiving formal visitors, and she can live very quietly.. It is to be hoped this independence of hers will not last long—”’ “Pray talk to me, not at me,” said Agatha, hotly. “{f beg your pardon,” he returned, with a little laugh. “I intended to do you a service with Aunt Henrietta; but as I told you not long ago, you are never grateful for a suggestion, much less a service.” Agatha blushed slightly, as Robert’s eves were fixed on her, and he added : “Perhaps, Aunt Henrietta, Agatha would preter Norman’s opinion to mine. We all know he is capable of one. Nor- wan, you have been permitted your luncheon in peace, so it is not much to ask you to forego that bird, and try if you can make Agatha reasonable.” Robert may have had two reasons for his appeal to Norman: one, to show that the young man had made a comfortable weal during the discussion of Agatha’s interests; the other, to draw out an opinion adverse to this plan of hers, which Agatha might resent... For if his opinions were not adverse, would he not have said a word of commendation ? Norman glanced up from the reed-bird he was giving himself the trouble to joint. “You have queened it so long, Agatha,” he said, “and your triends have sworn their allegiance from their hearts—that you can hold your court where you please.” “You might have known Norman would say something pretty,” laughed Mrs. Hartley. “ How could I tell he would not think it worth while to form an opinion?” re- torted Robert with a shrug. “There is not the slightest demand for your opinions, neither of you knowing anything of housekeeping,” interposed Agatha, lightly. “T can only wish I had, like Norman, devoted myself to my luncheon whilst it was hot. But you are always lucky,” added Robert, addressing Norman, who had pushed aside his plate, and was leis- urely paring a peach. But Agatha was going. “T must tell Jenny what I have done. She will not like my loitering so long.” “Write me your decision to-morrow,” asked Mrs. Hartley. “You know it now. The objectionable house around the more objectionable cor- ner,” replied Agatha, laughing. “Still, if you wish to hear it again, I will write to you to-morrow.” Robert Morse had risen during Aga- tha’s leave-taking with Mrs. Hartley. “T will walk home with you,” he pro- vosed. “ Not for the world,” was the quick re- joinder. “You shave neglected your luncheon long enough. I will not hear of your leaving it.” “T am so sorry I sent the carriage away,” said Mrs. Hartley, “If you will wait a few minutes, I will ring for it.” “But the arrangement was that. I should walk home. Indeed, I prefer to.” “Tam at your service. You can’t ob- ject to me on the score of my not having lunched,” said Norman, laughing, and going towards Agatha. She hesitated, and then looked at him, smiling—* Were you going, at any rate? Well, you can walk part of the way with me.” “TI give you joy of so gracious an ac- ceptance,” Robert said, as he resumed his seat at the table. “You need not be surly because I hap- pen to be more convenient than you just now,” answered Norman, laughing. “ Has she not said she may order me back at any corner she pleases?”

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230 THE NUT-BROWN MAID. “ More fool you, if you mind her order- ing,” Robert muttered, under his breath. But though Mrs. Hartley asked him what he said, he did not repeat it; but instead, ate the peach Norman had so delicately pared. Robert rather enjoyed that peach. Meanwhile, Agatha and Norman were walking slowly down the wide avenue of lindens, of which Ashleigh was justly proud. Scarcely a sunbeam penetrated the thick foliage; but even in the cool, pleasant shade, there was but slight chance of meeting any acquaintances after two o'clock on a September day. The business streets were all alive with the noise and crush of traffic; but the upper part of the town was as the city of the dead. Norman was counting on this utter quiet, when he proposed to walk home with Agatha. He had something to say to her—a plan to unfold. He had not spoken before, not caring to intrude this plan upon her grief, and not imagining she would form her own so promptly. And such poor little ones as Agatha, with the frankness of an old friend, in- ileed almost a relation, was unfolding—so unlike anything Norman had ever ex- pected to hear from the heiress of Ashleigh Park. He had often before wished he was a rich man, but never as during this short walk with Agatha. Indeed, he had never before realized what a power is mere wealth; for though actually a poor man, he lived like a rich one. Not only had Ashleigh Park been as open to him as if he had a right there, but he was the reputed heir of his uncle, one of the rich- est men of the place. So between the two houses there was not a luxury Norman did not enjoy. There were many sensible people who thought this a pity—confident it had kept him trom applying himself to his profession, a profession in which the more energetic, though scarcely as clever, Robert Morse had already succeeded. Still he had never really felt the need of money, until this bright September after- noon, while Agatha was telling him of her. future. Norman only listened to her, hardly assenting, and not making a suggestion until they had come to the road, and were in view of Ashleigh Park. The sight of her home, as it had been since her babyhood, suddenly made her dumb —or the knowledge that there was no one to welcome her there but old Jenny, who would be more curious as to her success than her feelings. “The dear old place looks pleasant in the sunshine,” said Agatha, a wistful light in her eyes that wandered down the stretch of dusty road, to the green wooded hollow, and the slope of lawn above. “Is it any sorrow to you, Norman, to know that it will never be to you quite what it has been?” “We have been very happy within its hospitable walls. Every one in Ashleigh will miss the place; of course, I more than any one, except yourself. But Agatha, we must not let our sorrow quite blot out all past pleasure,” answered Nor- man, gently. “Not blot it out. But when the future must be so different—” “The future—of that we know so very little. For instance, Agatha, you have been telling me what you will do with yourself for the rest of your natural life; whereas, I don’t think you know even what this year may bring you.” “T know, whatever it brings me, it will have nothing to do with Aunt Agatha and Ashleigh Park. Not that I am sorry to leave the old home, for without Aunt Agatha it is only pain to stay. When I go, I shall never wish to see it again. I am glad I know nothing of the people who will live here, and so need not make their acquaintance. That doves not seem civil to say te you, when they are your cousins,” she aaded, more gently. “Cousins I know nothing of, so you may say what you please. Only, Agatha, if they make their home here, and there are women in the family, I can’t see how you can escape knowing them, and in time calling on them.” “Can’t you?” she asked, with a little laugh. “Do you suppose they will ap prove of the small house around the cor- ner, any more than do Mrs. Hartley and Robert ?” “What nonsense!” said Norman, half angrily, “Ithought you had more pride than to use such an argument.” “ Weil, perhaps it was the convemience of it which led me to it—” Agatha re- turned, humbly. “The truth is, Norman, I wont be able to afford much society, and it is just as well to put my enforced economy upon the house.” “I never knew how worldly Aunt

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es Jenny, to her sant in il light vn the vooded above. lan, to 1 quite hin its shleigh - more But ¥ quite d Nor- future O very have > with life ; ~ | even it will gatha | SOFTy Aunt hen I in. people make seem your >» you ratha, there » how id in little 1 ap > cor: y and _ half pride jence a re- man, ciety, or Aunt THE NUT-BROWN MAID. 231 ? Henrietta was, until to-day,’ Norman went on to say, not at all appeased. “She forgets she had a pretty considerable knowledge of small houses, before she mar- ried my uncle. Not that she has not had time to forget in all these years, however.” “She has not forgotten at all, and not only warned me of every inconvenience, but gave her personal experience to eke out her advice.” “She certainly does not like your in- dependent style of living; though why she objects I can’t see,” said Norman, thoughtfully. “Robert’s objections I know are merely personal.” “T can’t see what personal objection he can have.” “He does not wish you to take any step that he does not approve, anything that he considers objectionable in the antecedents of the future Mrs. Morse. He does not hesitate to say so,” added Norman, smiling. “He need not fear that any action of mine will cast a reflection on—I was go- ing to say, that unfortunate lady, but I believe there are a good many girls in town who would not consider her unfortu- nate,” Agatha ends, with a perceptible shrug of her shoulders. Norman was looking at her rather fixedly. “Then he has really no hold on your liking, Agatha?” “Not even on my interest. If you have nothing else to talk of, we might as well part here. You remember I stipu- lated I would send you back when I pleased.” “But I am not likely to enter into such a bond as that,” answered Norman, coolly. “My question was not without method. I have another to ask you.” “If it is of Robert, let it alone,” she said impatiently. “Not of him: of myself. Put up your veil, Agatha. [ can’t say what I have to, and never see your face. The crape seems like a heavy cloud between us.” She lifted her veil, and looked up at him, half frightened. ‘“ What is it, Nor- man?—you are not in any trouble?” Not yet. It will depend upon yeu, though, if I am not.” A soft light came into her brown up- lifted eyes. ‘“ Upon me, Norman?” “T know”— he went on hurriedly—* I know it is not considered altogether the right thing for a man to tell a girl he loves her, unless in the same breath he ean say, When will you marry me? I could keep silence—” he said, looking down at the quiet profile of the face she had suddenly half averted from him— “as long as it seemed presumption in me to ask you to engage yourself indefinitely to me; but now”— “But now?” Agatha repeated his words quickly, turning round upon him with a flush on her face. “Now you will feel less lonely”’—he said gently —“ if you know there is one in the world who thinks more of your happi- ness than of anything else. And there are many things I can shield you from— not as perfectly as if I were able to per- suade you to marry me at once; but with hope to spur me on, I should soon be able to do that.” The two had stopped mechanically on the roadside. Agatha had let fall her parasol unheeded on her shoulder, and the September afternoon’s sun was bask- ing down full on her unveiled face, not turned from him, but with that far-away outlook in her eyes, fixed on the dusty windings of the road, almost as if she were not listening to him. Was she listen- ing to catch some tone she missed, in Norman’s voice? It was gentle and ten- der, even eager in its pleading. And yet —and yet— “You must try to look at me in the light of an advantage, Agatha, just as you weighed the conveniences of the different houses you saw to-day, before you decided which to take,” he added, laughingly. The faint flush flickering in her cheek died out. Her eyes lost their far-away look, and came back to him calmly. “Thank you, Norman,” she answered, smiling too. “Aunt Agatha always said you had the kindest heart, and was more thoughtful of doing a favor than any one she knew.” “She was always tender in her judg- ment of others,” said Norman, gratefully. “ But the favor is on your part, not mine. I have always hoped some day to tell you I loved you, and indeed, I thought you had long guessed it. Why, ever since we were babies, I have cared for you.” “But it was such baby-love, one never expected it would come to much,” Agatha said, lightly. “No doubt you are sorry for me—”

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232 THE NUT-BROWN MAID. “Of course I am sorry for you,” he in- terrupted. “I know too well what you lost in Cousin Agatha. But where most people feel most compassion for you, I do not; for though I by no means despise money, I would rather get it in any other way than through my wife.” “But you don’t want a wife to hamper you and hold you back.” “T don’t want to ask any woman to suffer through me,” answered Norman, gravely. “That is why I spoke of an in- definite engagement. I shall not press you to marry me until I can support you properly. Only, Agatha, in the mean- time, I would like to have the right to protect you better than old Jenny, though she has the best intentions. You have no idea, poor child, how very lonely you ure. There was so much compassion in his voice that Agatha winced. “Then don’t open my eyes to it. Ig- norance is bliss in more ways than one.” “Is this my answer, Agatha?” “Tsn’t it enough? I don’t want a pro- tector, Norman, though it is kind in you to offer to be one.” He hesitated a moment before he spoke again. “Agatha, perhaps you do not know that it was your Aunt’s wish—,” he be- gan. “Aunt Agatha left no will,” she inter- rupted. “ Nevertheless, you can take my word as. to her wish,’ Norman answered, gravely. “I had a long talk with her the very day before she died. Since then I have looked upon you as her leg- acy.” “Aunt Agatha must have had some reason,” said Agatha, slowly, looking away from him. “ Did she fancy I cared for you, Norman?” “She would scarcely have encouraged me to speak to you, if she thought there was no hope for me,” he said, evasively. “Agatha, I'll not believe there may not be a hope, until you look me in the face and tell me plainly, you only care for me a little, as your friend.” “That’s nonsense,” said Agatha, bluntly, her face still somewhat averted. “Aunt Agatha of course only meant it as a royal way of giving you Ashleigh Park, and not turning me out. It’s all different now.” “ But if I do not choose to see the dif- ference, and think Cousin Agatha valued you a little higher than her money,” Norman began. “ You don’t know:at all whether your uncle would like it.” “That is easy to discover. If he does not, we will have to wait until I make some headway in my profession.” * Yes, it is best to wait. Suppose we try the old time test, Norman—a twelve- month and a day? Ina year and a day from now, if you find me starving, and if you don’t change your mind, and if your uncle does not object, why, we may see about it.” “Tl not be held inthat way,” Norman said, coolly. “When I asked you just now to engage yourself to me, I had no intention of changing my mind: and as to what my uncle says, I can’t see that it is exactly his business, if you choose to bea poor man’s wife. For yourself you have a right to make what answer you please.” “T didn’t mean to be flippant, Nor- man,” Agatha said, a little humbly. “But it is best to wait a year. I could not think of engaging myself just now,” she added, just touching her black dress. “And it wouldn’t do for me to be talked of, as I would be, if our engagement were known; and if it were not known, you could see very little of me. When the year is out, it will be different; and then we both can judge better ; and you must not shock your uncle by too violent an attack. Yet he has always seemed fond of me,” added Agatha. “T have not many fears on that score,” said Norman, smiling. “I warn you, Agatha, if you will have no engagement now, I'll have the very shortest one pos- sible, after the year is over.” “You will not think it necessary to see very much of me just now,” Agatha stipulated, Jetting Norman’s speech pass without remark. “Jenny and I will keep the most seeluded of home-circles, and—my mourning will prevent us from meeting in society.” “Do you mean to say I am to see noth- ing of you?” he broke in. “ Not more than the rest of my friends, —Robert, for instance, though I shall be much better pleased to see you than him. You are not to have any foolish feelings as to responsibility or allegiance to me. A year may bring so many changes.” — “ One would think you were bargaining to get rid of me.” wis hoc nee qui é of a te out figu ing rus! den Mis of Was cou sud as cull cel wer que and Way fori ex p the hea wal gui] Opel in clos exc it St ston but

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ney,” your > does make 3 we velve- a day nd if your Y see rman just d no 1d as at it » bea ave a a" Nor- ably. “ould ow,” lress. Iked ment own, y hen and you lent med ore,” , you, nent pos- y to atha pass will cles, rom oth- nds, | be 1m. ings me. 1ing TAM! THE STORY OF A WOMAN. 99 oo “T don’t intend to hold you unless you wish it,” said Agatha, quickly. “What a man has wanted from boy- hood, he has very good evidence is a Dee toe a = need of his life,’ answered Norman, quietly. “No one has a life-need,” she asserted. “At any rate, I am not yours yet, Nor- man. Now I must go in and tell Jenny the result of my morning’s work—the seeking for a house, I mean. The rest, I can trust you, will be our own secret.” But it was a full hour later, when Agatha went in search of Jenny. TAM! THE STORY OF A WOMAN. ——_- CHAPTER V. FRINGED GENTIAN. On the third day after his arrival, John Hall sat writing in his apartment by one of the deep window-seats that served for atable, when happening to glance at the outer prospect, he saw a well-remembered figure advancing toward the house, carry- ing a hand-bag. His first impulse was to rush forward and relieve her of her bur- den, but he bethought him in time that Miss Powell seemed best pleased when he remained in the background. Exercise had brought a decided tinge of color to her pale complexion, and she was undeniably pretty — composed, of course, as usual, even when Hiram sprang suddenly at her from behind a tree with a shrill yell, in the charming fashion pe- culiar to boys and Indians. Having re- ceived his rough embrace as though she were used to it, and answered the two questions he shot at her: “ How’s Hanner and “ How’s the baby?” she wended her way quietly within doors; and was in- formed by her mother that shé no more expected to see her than she did the dead. {r. Hall wondered if he could believe the evidence of his own ears, when he heard Tamzine reply: “TI would have staid longer, but I wanted to see Mr. Hall.” What could it mean? He colored guiltily to have heard it, and wished that open doors were not such a general rule m this household. He scarcely dared close his own for fear of being thought exclusive; and to tell the truth, he found jt somewhat chilly without a fire, as there is more or less dampness about these old stone houses. He was extremely puzzled, but resolved to act as though he had not 9-6 | heard what was evidently not intended for his ears. “Why, Tam Powell!” ejaculated her mother, “I should say you was luny!” and John could faney the good lady pushing up her glasses the more carefully to regard her astonishing daughter. The listener had no compunction now about closing his door, which he did at once, losing all distinct sound of voices. When Mr. Hall met Miss Powell at tea-time, there was a bright light in her eyes and a flush on her cheek; there seemed to be a strong purpose in her whole mien, and that purpose, her disap- proving critic told himself, was art. He hated women who gave themselves up to this or any other hobby; his beau-ideal of womanhood was a gentle refined creature, with not too much preponderance of mind over matter: and above all, she should not devote herself to anything but hus- band and home. Tamzine certainly looked girlish and domestic, as she sat there beside her father, or fitted swiftly in and out of the kitchen, her dark dress protected by a marvellously pretty white apron, trimmed with little frills, and a large pink rose from the little garden-plot stuck care- lessly in her hair. She was almost gay that evening, and did not seem in the least like a woman with a sphere. “T am glad to have my girl at home again,” said Mr. Powell, affectionately patting the shapely hand next to him. Tam smiled back at him, and made @ very pretty picture as she did so. John Hall thought of the Catherine Cornaro, and wondered much at her many-sided-

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234 TAM! THE STORY OF A WOMAN. ness—remembering, too, with a strange perplexity, that she had come back be- cause she wanted to see him. Now that she did see him, however, she did not ap- pear to be particularly conscious of his presence. Guy Rayburn was frequently mentioned in the family cirele, and always in terms of cordial liking; as his friend, Mr. Hall was evidently expected to be pleased with this, but he felt himself somewhat lack- ing in enthusiasm, and rather restive at having Guy’s praises so constantly sounded in his ears. What a wonderful October that was! not an October of thirty-one day’s dura- tion, but queening it royally far into No- vember, with exquisite mornings of misty gold, and crimson and purple sunsets. “Oh, would I were a boy again!” sighed John Hall, on one of these morn- ings, “I should like to go a-nutting.” “I’m a boy,” growled Hiram, “and I’ve got to go a-chopping—mother’s been hollerin’ at me for wood ever since she got up.” “Then go at once and get it ready,” ordered his father. With a face expressive of great disgust, Hiram went. “Do you consider nutting improper for grown men and women?” asked Tam- zine. “Not at all,” was the eager reply. “Here is a man who is ready to go—but I am afraid I could not get any woman to go with me.” “Mother is out of the question, I sup- pose,” said the daughter smiling. “For the land’s sake!” ejaculated Mrs. Powell. “But here is one woman who will go. Hiram,” she added in the direction of the wood-pile, “finish your chores, and bring a bag for shell-barks—it is too late for anything else.” The wood was disposed of much more quickly than usual; and with a bag of coarse sheeting on his shoulders, Hiram led the way along the railroad, up a green bank, and over a little rustic bridge span- ning a brook, into the shadow of the for- est trees. He had begun that pilgrimage by clinging fraternally to Mr. Hall, but by degrees it was forced upon him that most of the talk was between him and Tam—and with a smothered “ Bother girls!” he strode off in majestic loneliness, leaving the two to follow at their leisure, Once or twice the gentleman had nearly uttered the thought so frequently in his mind, “You wished particularly to see me,” but remembered just in time that he was not to know this until Miss Powell was ready to inform him. She was not in the least hurry about it, and neglected two or three excellent opportunities for private remarks. Following the course of the brook, they came suddenly upon blue flowers mixed with the seed-vessels of summer bloom, and John Hall bent delightedly to gather a handful, which he presented to his com- panion. “It is the fringed gentian!” claimed, enthusiastically, “I know it in song and story, but never before have I seen the actual living bloom. Look at these exyuisitely-cut edges, and see how well it deserves the name of fringed. There is no such lovely blue save that of - the heavens, and some rare violet eyes. Bryant combines the two very beautifully when he says: “Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky. Blue—blue—as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.” “It is very pretty,” said Tamzine; I have often seen the flower before, and admired its lovely blue—I like to fill a white cup or pitcher with that alone. But I never thought of its name.” “Then you do not care for botany?” asked her companion. “T am afraid I don’t,” she replied after a moment’s thought, “ perhaps the reason is that I don’t understand it— it is one of the studies that I never seemed to care to take up.” “A particularly womanly study,” was Mr. Hall’s inward comment. “ You really lose a great deal, Miss Powell,” said he, “ with your quickness at grasping subjects, not to devote some little time to botany. You are so fond of flowers, and have such fine opportunities in your pretty country home, that you would find it quite a labor of love.” “ Do you know the language of flowers?” she asked ; “I like that.” “Somewhat,” was the reply ; “ the gen- tian, I believe, signifies ‘intrinsic worth.’ It is, properly speaking, an Alpine flower, growing in the meadows of the Alps and he ex-— th the tre oe L to th he co co de

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sliness, eisure, nearly in his to see e that Powell as not ‘lected es for , they mixed loom, rather 3 com- e ex: it in ave I ok at » how nged. at of - eyes. ifully zine ; , and fill a lone. ny ? ” after 2ason 1e of re to was You ell,” ping ne to and your find rs?” gen- rth.’ wer, and TAM! THE STORY OF A WOMAN. 235 Pyrenees, where the blossoms are as often yellow as blue. The coloring of the Al- pine species is particularly brilliant, and many attempts have been made to trans- plant it; but it seems impossible to pro- vide a climate and temperature, away from its native haunts, in which it will thrive. Sensible little gentian! It ree- ygnizes its mission, and seeks steadfastly to fulfil it, making a spot of brightness in one small place, and not trying with its feeble candle to illuminate the world. Cradled in simplicity and nourished on hardships, its blossoms cannot expand, save in the rough soil where its roots had birth.” Tamzine face was turned to the dis- tant hills, and the speaker wondered if she were looking at her inner self from the gentian point of view. Hiram had left the pair “ mooning over flowers,” as he called it, and gone sturdily at the business of gathering up shell- barks. It was work, to be sure, but the cloud had a silver lining in the fact that nuts and winter evenings agreed admira- bly; and the employment was deiight- fully suggestive of candy-pulls and other recreations, in which refreshments bore & conspicuous part. He regarded his companions, if they could be called so, with a decided feeling of contempt; and saw nothing to admire in the beauties of nature except when they were eatable. “Your brother tells me,” began Mr. Hall, as the danger of a final union with Hiram became imminent, “that you in- tend going to the city to study art.” “Yes,” replied Miss Powell, “I had thought of speaking to you about it, but then again I wondered why I should trouble a stranger with my affairs.” “But I am very much interested in your affairs,’ pursued her companion, “if you will allow me to be; I should like toask you a few questions in regard to them, if you will not think me imperti- nent.” “Ask me anything you like,” was the en- couraging reply. “Do you really mean then to give yourself up entirely to the purpose of be- coming an artist?” “Yes,” the monosyllable was sufficiently decided. “Have you counted the cost?” contin- ued John, quite wrought up on the sub- ject. “What is it you give up for an uncertain gain? Home ties, home duties, home protection—in short, Miss Powell, have you fully calculated what you will lose? You have to give up yourself: a woman loses her identity in the world ‘as a woman when she weds art, a jealous bridegroom who claims every thought; she is no longer a woman, she is an artist.” “That is my highest ambition,” was the reply, “to be an artist, heart and soul.” “ Ambition!” he echoed. “It pains me to hear a woman say that she is am- bitious: that is for men—it is the sin by which the angels fell. A woman may have aspirations, but not ambition— which is an eager and inordinate desire of preferment and superiority, a desire to ride over and above one’s fellow-crea- tures.” “*The world,’” quoted Tamzine, with quiet humor, “likes a woman to be help- less—unless the world happens to need her strength. Now I am quite aware, I knew it, Mr. Hall, before you directed my attention to the fact—Mr. Hall deprecated this charge with some em- barrassment—‘that Tamzine Matilda Merryweather Powell is an absurd name; and it would be a triumph worth winning, through some great art achievement, to make it sound even beautiful.” “ And what, may I ask, are the prelim- inaries to this desirable end?” “Hard study and endless labor,” was the reply ; “but that does not frighten me in the least—I am used to both. When I taught the district school, a mile off, and had to be there at half-past eight, I did my own studying at five o’clock in the morning.” “ But surely,” exclaimed her companion, “you did not find it necessary to apply yourself so closely as that to teach a dis- trict school!” “No,” said Miss Powell, with a slight curve of her lips at the idea, “I was learning Latin and Greek for my own benefit.” John Hall groaned inwardly, “What next?” Hethought ambition, boundless, extravagant, appeared to be the ruling passion with this seemingly quiet girl, who was developing into a strong-minded wo- man of the most approved type. Would she stop short, he wondered, of a profes- sor’s chair, or the handling of a scalpel ? “As to ‘home protections,” resumed Tamzine, and the touch of womanliness

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236 TAM! THE STORY OF A WOMAN. pleased him, for it showed that this had lmgered in her mind through all the in- tervening remarks, “I must set you right there. My aunt, my father’s sister, who spent the early part of the summer with us, has offered me the home protection of her own house during the winter ; and as she lives in the city, and seems to think my plans worth encouraging, I have, with my parents’ consent, accepted her offer.” “JI am very glad to hear this,” replied Mr. Hall, heartily. He had imagined the girl living in one room and “ finding herself.” “ But was it your aunt who first suggested to you the study of art?” He felt quite sure that it was not; yet he was irritated by his companion’s reply, with a conscious flush that would come in spite of her. “ No, my aunt is not an artist. It was Mr. Rayburn who first put my own ideas and wishes into some definite shape. He saw some of my little pictures, and kindly praised them far more than they deserved, telling me that I ought to per- severe, and do a great deal better.” “Just like that foolish, enthusiastic Guy!” thought John. “He always soars off on any possibility of an idea. I sin- cerely wish he had never lighted on this place.” Then to Tamzine: “Did you paint those two little pictures m the par- jor that 1 have admired so much?” “Oh, no!” with an amused laugh; “I don’t attempt colors yet. I am not a Benjamin West, you see, with a cat’s-tail brush, and paints mixed from earth and vegetables. Mr. Rayburn painted those pictures as a parting gift, and a reminder of some pleasant August days.” She seemed to her discontented hearer to have had a great deal to do with Mr. Rayburn. “ Mine are only done with a pencil,” con- tinued Tamzine, “and I know that they are not done well—except, perhaps, for an untaught beginner. But I should like to spend whole days doing nothing else. If you care to see it, this is what Mr. Rayburn happened to find me doing one afternoon down by the brook. He had looked over my shoulder before I saw or heard him.” How confoundedly like one of his own stories it all went on !—a regular summer idyl, with Guy for hero—and in his an- noyance he almost snatched the drawing out of the girl’s hand. It was a little thing ; and she evidently carried it about her as something precious, enshrined in a sort of pocket-book that might hold love- letters besides, for aught he knew. He wondered if Guy wrote love-letters, and how they sounded. The sketch was little beyond an ontline, but it was very expressive ; and Mr. Hall was much amused by the humorous fancy of the self-taught artist. He recognized the brook at once ; and on opposite sides of a “hammock” were two frogs—one with an impassioned expression in his pro- truding eyes and open mouth, the other smaller and simpering. Underneath was written : “Come, live with me, and be my lovey” “So this is the kind of thing you do?” said the critic, almost unconsciously. “Tt is the kind of thing I did then,” was the calm reply, “but not the kind of thing I expect to do always.” “Pardon me,” he said, “I was express- ing my surprise at the exceptional nature of your gift. I shall judge from this that you were not only an artist, but a humor- © ist as well—which is not a frequent com- bination. Allow me to say, as I have seen more of such things, by virtue of my greater years and experience than you have, that this is capitally well done. But how did you come to think of apply- ing Marlowe’s pretty poem in this dread- ful sort of way?” “ Because it struck me as better suited to the habits of out-door creatures than of rational beings.” A tremendous thump in his back ad- ministered by Tamzine’s brother, speed- ily brought Mr. Hall to a realizing sense of an existence which he had somewhat forgotten. “You don’t go a nuttin’ worth two cents,” remarked Hiram, who was ail- dicted to this very low commercial esti- mate of matters and things. “You just poke round here ’mong the leaves and talk. I’m tearin’ hungry—where’s the doughnuts, Tam ?” “ Really, young man,” said John, when he had recovered his breath, “you and I will have a regular set-to fight, if you give me many more such taps as that. How do you like this?” And taking up the belligerent youth by the collar as though he had been a kitten, he deposited him in a very astonished frame of mind on a ledge of rock. “Jiminy, but you’re strong!” he mut o- s+ oe @&

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od ina 1 love- . He 8, and ntline, . Hall fancy gnized e sides —one is pro- other h was be my do?” then,” nd of press- ature s that imor- — com- have »f my olig done. pply- read- uited than : ad- yee d- sense what two at l- estl- just and the ‘hen ad I give tow the ugh n in na nut TAM! THE STORY OF A WOMAN 237 tered. “I guess I'll let you.off from the fight,” as he descended from his pinnacle and regarded John’s well-developed mus- cles with genuine admiration. They were like steel sheathed in velvet ; and Hiram had thought he looked too soft and nice outwardly to amount to much. He had experienced an illustra- tion of the fact that strength is not neces- surily roughness; and Tamzine quietly appreciated Mr. Hall’s cultivated manli- ness. There was nothing in the least effeminate about him, and yet, as Mrs. Powell discriminatingly remarked, “he looked as if he belonged to the upper crust.” “Now,” said the gentleman, laughing, “T really think that Hiram has some show of reason on his side; and that our enthusiasm in nutting is mere enjoyment of the autumn woods and this delicious autumn air. But I hope it is not too late to retrieve our characters in his estima- tion, and I propose for one to go to work forthwith, if that bag is to be filled before sundown. Suppose, Hiram, that you and I pick up the nuts, while your sister looks on, or gathers flowers?” But Tamzine manfully refused to be set aside in this way—evidently resolved to hold her own in a nutting-match, as well as in the deeper struggles of life. Hiram still clamored for doughnuts; and the lunch-basket was opened and emptied in an incredibly short space of time, and with much eulogium from Mr. Hall on Mrs. Powell’s deftness in cooking. Pump- kin-pie certainly did seem to have addi- tional charms partaken of in the crisp open air, amid the perfume of dying leaves, and the twittering of late birds, who flocked sociably around to enjoy the remnants of the feast. Hiram climbed a huge tree, and shook down shellbarks until the gropers amid the leaves beneath cried for mercy; and suunds of happy laughter filled the wood- land depths. An undertone like that of distant breakers was audible through it ull; and they could * Hear the wind through the wild wood aisles, Like the Lord’s own organ blow.” John Hall noticed that the large straw hat tied down gipsy fashion, and tilted over her eyes, was infinitely becoming to Miss Powell, and that she walked like a queen. He wondered if he were not get- ting too much interested in this girl, when a feeling of irritation arose at some fresh development of her ambition and_ her varied gifts; but like a foolish moth, he went on burning himself in the candle. A few days after the nutting expedition, Mrs. Powell’s boarder took from the sit- ting-room table his copy of Bryant, which he had lent to Tamzine, and in searching for an appropriate quotation, his eyes fell upon a slip of paper on which was written in a stiff hand these lines: THE FRINGED GENTIAN. Lift up thy dewy, fringed eyes, O little Alpine flower! The tear that trembling on them lies Has sympathetic power To move my own; for 1. too, dream , With thee of distant heights, Whose lofty peaks are all agleam With rosy, dazzling lights. Where aspirations, hopes, desires, Combining, fondly dwell— Where burn the never-dying fires Of genius’ wondrous spell. Such towering summits would I reach, Who climb and grope in vain: O little flower! the secret teach— The weary way make plain. Who dreams of wider spheres revealed Up higher, near the sky, Within the valley’s narrow field Cannot contented lie ; Who longs for mountain breezes rare, Is restless down below— Like me, for stronger, purer air Thou pinest, too, I know. Then whisper. blossom, in thy sleep, How may I upward climb The Alpine path so hard, so steep, That leads to heights snblime ? How may I reach the far-off goal Of true and honored fame, To write upon its shining scroll A woman’s humble name? Amazement was the prominent expres- sion in the reader’s face, for the date and initials left no doubt as to the writer. Artist—student—poetess ; he went over these qualifications mentally on his fingers, and assured himself’ that, apart from all questions of pedigree and position, Tam- zine Matilda Merryweather Powell was the last woman in the world to realize in the remotest degree his beau-ideal of wo- manhood. Did he want, he asked him- self, his second self to be writing poetry, while he was writing prose? or to be wrapped in the elaboration of some “counterfeit presentment” on the easel, to the thrusting aside of his own person- ality? or to be digging among the roots of

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238 TAM! THE STORY OF A WOMAN. dead languages, while he starved, perhaps, for a few sentences of modern English? He started and colored; for Tamzine had entered the room unnoticed, and stood quietly regarding him. “Pardon me,” he said in great embar- rassment, for the paper was in his hand, “IT would not have read the lines, but—” “You did not know they were mine,” supplemented Miss Powell. She looked very firm and collected, as she continued : “I will not deny them now, and I am not in the least ashamed of writing them— although I meant to have put the paper carefully out of sight.” “You need not be ashamed of them,” said Mr. Hall, “they are neither rhymes nor blank verse.” “Thank you,” she replied, “for your encouragement. As you are an author, I wished to speak to you about this very thing, and ask your advice. I can write a little—that was done on the spur of the moment—and I have written a few other things. Do you think I have any right to expect—when I have had more practice, I mean—to receive pay for my verses? Actual money, as for marketable merchan- dise?” There was a bright color in her cheeks, and the deep-set eyes looked absolutely black. “You have every right to expect it,” said her companion, “and so assured do I feel of it that, if you will allow me to retain the poem, and give me your city address, I will engage to send you a cheque for the same within 2 reasonable time.” “You are very kind indeed, Mr. Hall; but I desire nothing more than your as- surance that I am not presumptous. The rest I can attend to for myself.” It was Catharine Cornaro who took the paper from his unresisting hand, and walked out of the room. She did not give him the address he asked, and she evi- dently had no intention of doing so. John Hall’s work at Lion was done; and as he had now been away from home for three weeks, it was quite time to think of returning. He had looked in upon the household in West Sylvania several times, during his flying visits of a few hours to the city, but “bed and board” had known him not; and he began to detect a sort of wonderment in Grace’s letters at his prolonged absence. She spcke of Guy, too, as somewhat impatient to see him; and the longer he put off a meeting, the harder it would be to get it over grace. fully. So, one day, the guest announced his intention of departing the next morning; and made his preparations accordingly. Mr. Powell said that he should miss him, and Mrs. Powell assured him that “he was as easy as an old shoe in a house, and as good as gold about his victuals,” Tamzine said nothing; and Hiram, whenever he could catch his friend’s eye, perpetrated the most extraordinary winks, distortions, and chuckles—to which a key was as necessary as to any other puzzle. It was bright moonlight, and about the witching hour of twelve, p. m., when John Hall was aroused from his first nap by a subdued clicking of his door-lock. He did not think of burglars—that species of wild beast being unknown in Lion—but of Hiram,who had been talking ‘ paregori- cally’ during the day—jerking out senten- ces at intervals that evidently held a world of concealed meaning, if one had time and patience to unravel them; and it was Hiram, in stockinged feet, with shoes in one hand and a bundle in the other, whom he confronted on opening the door. “T’ve got it all fixed,” said the boy, in an encouraging whisper, “ you take your things, and I'll take mine—and we'll scout off to the station and ketch the one o'clock train, without any of the folks seein’ us.” “But I don’t mind being seen,” re spended Mr. Hall unsympathetically, “and I prefer travelling by daylight. What in the world are you thinking of, Hiram?” “I’m thinkin’,” he said, “of what I’ve been thinkin’ of all along—goin’ home with you, and havin’ you for a real bro- ther. I’d like it first-rate—I’d a heap ruther read about Ivanhoe and them fel- lers, than to stay home and chop wood. | guess the country don’t agree with me, anyhow—though I might come back and see the folks now and then.” John Hall was decidedly sleepy, and not at all in the humor for a romanti¢e episode ; but the idea of being eloped with by a boy struck him as so irresistibly comic, that he sat down in his airy attire and laughed until he could Jaugh no longer.

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Ls see him; ting, the er grace. nced his norning; ingly. ld miss im that a house, tuals,” Hiram, d’s eye, y winks, h a key uzzle, out the » When rst nap or-lock, Species n—but iregori- senten- held a ne had n; and L, With in the pening boy, in e your _ we'll he one » folks 1,” re ically, ylight. ing of, it I’ve home | bro- heap m fel- od. I h me, k and , and antic with stibly attire h no TAM! THE 8TORY OF A WOMAN. 239 Hiram fairly blubbered at this, he was so disappointed ; for he had set his heart on a thrilling adventure, and Mr. Hall’s reception of his overtures struck him as both chilling and unbrotherly. “Go to bed, Hiram,” said his friend, presently, “and if you are a good boy, you shall come and visit me in the holi- days. But you must promise me to stop reading the Burglars’ Times, for it is just that horrible trash that has put this freak into your mind. Is it a bargain?” “Y-e-3;” responded the boy, in a sub- dued tone, “but you won’t”—jerking his thumb in the direction of the sleepers up- stairs. “Not a word, as a man of honor,” was the reply. While Hiram glided softly back to his deserted bed, John Hall indulged in an- other laugh at the danger he had just escaped of being run away with in the dead of the night by Tamzine’s brother. CHAPTER VI. TRANSPLANTED. Some time in December Mr. Hall re- ceived a prettily-worded note of invitation from a certain Mrs. Ray-Clymer—she was particular about the hyphen—to the effect that her series of monthly enter- tainments would begin on Thursday of the ensuing week, and that she considered him engaged for the entire series. This opening one promised to be of a particularly mild and literary character ; and our author, who had a surfeit of such things, did not feel particularly anxious to go. Besides, he had another engage- ment for that evening, and he decided that, if he went at all, he would oniy come in on the outskirts of the entertain- ment. “Now Mrs. Clymer really interests me,” observed Grace, in her bright, quick way, while her cousin was rather grum- bling over the requirements of society, “and her receptions, or what ever they ure to be called, are always worth going tou. She never attempts impossibilities, and she contrives very ingeniously to make up in originality what she lacks in grandeur. Her invention is so great, that she reminds me of Wilkie Collins’ characters—nearly everything she does leans something.” “ Bravo! Grace,” said her cousin, laugh- ing, while Aunt Gra’ bent upon her a pair of very puzzled eyebrows ; “ I do not know that I have ever heard so near an ap- proach to a speech from you,—you talk well, too, and have a very clear idea of your subject.” Grace blushed, but the excess of color was not so becoming as it would have been in a fairer subject ; and John Hall was recalling a certain face, that on rare occasions, “burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom,” unconscious that, while seeing only it, he was looking very hard at the one before him. Grace turned away in embarrassment ; while dear, hopeful Mrs. Beaumont privately assured herself, with a loving smile for the young people, that matters were progressing beautifully. “ And what about this Mrs. Clymer?” she asked, benevolently, “ you have quite excited my curiosity.” “She is a lady,” said John, removing his cigar to do justice to Mrs. Clymer, and gazing complacently at the wreath of smoke that often made Mrs. Beaumont wish for Sir Walter Raleigh’s servant and his pail of water—she hated smoke, but Grace “did not mind ”—“a lady,” very slowly and deliberately, “who from her cradle must have had an object in life— and that object is undoubtedly to be ‘an ornament to society;’ her house, Aunt Gra’, is a series of Arabian Nights’ sur- prises, on a small scale; and things are not what they seem. The amount of square feet enclosed by the four walls of the dwelling is decidedly homeopathic ; but with the aid of deceptive mirrors, and portieres that open frequently into closets, an effect of space is produced that is really marvelous. Mirrors, as Mrs. Clymer sagely remarks, cannot be sat upon nor overpowered in any way; and they are therefore desirable investments in the way of furniture—though how she contrives to make such a show of them, as well as of paintings and expensive articles of bric-a-brac, is a puzzle to most of her friends. Mrs. Clymer is certainly a very clever woman.” “Is she poor?” asked Mrs. Beaumont. “Not in the ordinary acceptation of the term, Aunt Gra’, but decidedly straitened for a society devotée. She is said to have begun her career in an ob scure farm-house—to have officiated as ticket-agent on a railroad—and in that

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240 TAM! THE STORY OF A WOMAN capacity to have met a rich widower, one of the trustees of the road, who finally married her. The girl was a great reader and very ambitious, and she did not ap- pear at any disadvantage in her new sphere; but the man she married lost most of his money by insane speculations, and then became paralyzed. A few thou- sands were rescued from the general wreck and invested to the best possible advantage by the enterprising wife; and so, somehow or other, Mrs. Clymer man- ages successfully to float with the tide. Every one likes her entertainments; shall you go, Grace?” “1 think so,” was the reply, “ that is— if you don’t mind.” She had hoped for something a little warmer, and felt disappointed when her cousin replied in a matter-of-fact way : “Mind? what an idea; of course, I don’t mind—and I will hurry the other affair all that I can, so that I may take you in good season.” Grace dropped a sigh or two over the misty white dress that, under Aunt Gra’s supervision, she was trimming with pale pink bows for the evening at Mrs. Cly- mer’s. The girl had ,very little idea of what suited her style; and the elder woman was obliged to be constantly on the alert lest she should throw away her moderate dowry of good looks by putting on the very colors that should be kept at arm’s length. It was an inexpressible comfort to Mrs. Beaumont, when the evening came to see the two depart with mutual pleasure in each other’s appearance. John having really said some very nice things tuo Grace on the becomingness and good taste of her dress—for like most men of his stamp, he was particularly impressible to harmony and picturesque effects, and with that coronet-like braid, all hair .of her own raising, around her small shapely head, just a beceming flush on her cheeks, and eyes full of the soft brightness of pleased expectation, his cousin seemed by no means an objectionable person to look at. As a finishing touch—a dew- drop, John declared, on the rose—Aunt Gra’ fastened a small star of diamonds, her most cherished heir-loom, in the centre of the coronet; and with a sigh of satisfaction at the result of her work, the old lady estab- lished herself before the genial blaze in the parlor, with Gyp in » her lap, and th the latest issue of the “No Name Series” in’ her hand. Arrived at Mrs. Clymer’s, they found a swarm of people in the little parlors, while a curtain at one end seemed to pro- claim that tableaux, or private theatricals, were in progress. The lady of the house, a large stately- looking women in black satin, ‘with grey hair rolled over a cushion in front and hanging in a thick chatelaine loop be- hind, received Miss Hall very graciously, and her cousin rapturously. “You are the very man I want!” said she, ‘and you must be amiable and fill the gap. Go behind the scenes at once— the tableau is on the stage now—and read Tennyson for the ‘Sleeping Beauty’ : you are the only one here who can do it de- cently. Miss Elliott, the elocutionist whom I engaged for the evening, has given out at the last moment with a bad cold: and you are my one hope.” A feeble-looking young man, delicate moustache that required constant nursing, was introduced to Grace, and worried out a few words by way of con- versation ; while John was triumphantly earried off by Mrs. Clymer, and placed in a retired corner behind the scenes. “The Day Dream” was an especial favor- ite of his; and he regretted not having : glimpse, himself, of the picture. Presently, the curtain was drawn ; and the deep cultivated tones of the reader breathed forth the Bard’s enchanted numbers as though he had been the poet- laureate himself’: ‘Year after year, unto her feet, She lying on her couch, alone, Across the purpled coverlet, The maiden’s jet-black hair has grown, On either side her trancéd form Forth streaming from a braid of pearl: The slumbrous light is rich and warm. And moves not on the rounded curl. “ The silk star-broider’d coverlid Unto her limbs itself doth mould Languidly ever; and, amid Her full black ringlets downward roll'd, Glows forth each softly-shadow’d arm With bracelets of the diamond bright: Her constant beauty doth inform Stillness with love, and day with light. “She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace-chambers far apart, The fragrant tresses are not stirred That lie upon her charméd heart. with a mi ex in at hi

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nd the es” jn found arlors, to pro- ricals, tately- h grey it and op be- iously, ” said nd fill mnee— d read tf you it de- tionist : given cold; vith a nstant >, and ft eon- hantly placed scenes, tavor- ving & > and reader ranted pt yet- own, ar : oll’d, rht: geht. ard TAM! THE STORY OF A WOMAN. 241 She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest ; She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.” “ Beautiful! beautiful! beautiful!” was murmured audibly among the spectators ; and a round of applause greeted the ex- quisite picture, which seemed as near per- fection as anything of the kind could be. Others followed, and all were well done; but none appeared to call forth the enthusiasm excited by the “Sleeping Beauty.” When Mr. Hall was released from his elocutionary labors, he critically examined the various faces about him, in the hope of discovering some rarely attractive one that should answer the poet’s description : “ Her constant beauty doth inform Stillness with love, and day with light.” Before his quest was ended, he found himself seized by Guy Rayburn. “Did you ever see anything so perfect ?” asked the artist, excitedly, ‘“‘I recognized your voice, old fellow, and I know you'll agree with me that the Sleeping Beauty is even better than the Cornaro. I must paint her to-morrow—I should like to go at it to-might.” “What a weather-cock you are, Guy replied his friend. “Raving over every new face and figure that strikes your fancy. The last time I saw you, Miss Powell was your ideal of beautiful woman- hood; and already some marvelous crea- ture, whom I have not seen, has usurped her place. I should really like to see the girl who had confidence enough in her own charms to undertake the Sleeping Beauty.” Guy laughed good-naturedly. “I forgot,” said he, “that from your perch, as reader, you could not see the tableau. Too bad, John—that Sleeping Beauty was really too perfect to miss: but I know the young lady, and as soon as I can make my way to her, I will take you in tow and present you.” Mr. Hall meanwhile went to look up his cousin, and found her in a retired corner, evidently enjoying the scene be- fore her, and almost as rapturous over the Sleeping Beauty as Guy had been. “T shall always feel now that I have really seen her,” she said enthusiastically ; “I wish that she would always dress like that—for I might not know her in ordi- hary attire.” Vou. cvul.—16, | eed “She could scarcely go about,” replied John smiling, “with jet-black hair on either side her trancéd form forth stream- ing from a braid of pearl!” ut Guy’s beckoning finger now allured him to the other end of the room—a jour- ney accomplished with some difficulty ; and when there, his sensations on being gravely introduced to Miss Powell were a curious mixture of amazement and pleasure. Tamzine was royally beautiful, that evening: the flame of adulation kindled at her shrine had thrown its glow upon her cheek, and danced in her eyes like stars; her dress, a soft white cashmere, with rose-colored trimmings, was wonder- fully becoming—and her rich, dark hair fell in a careless mass from an ivory comb that had been thrust into the disheveled locks of the Sleeping Beauty. A stout, red-faced man, who hovered near her, might have played the rdle or Beast with great credit—he was so excep- tionally ugly. This was Simon Blur the millionaire; and he was very fond of say- ing, on being introduced to a lady: “I’m not pretty, but I’m good”—a speech which had been furnished by some wag with the codicil, “ for $500,000.” Simon was a great pet in society—for he was quite unencumbered, except with an aged mother, and had declared: very plainly that he was a marrying man; his fastidiousness, however, in the matter ot beauty, youth, and good connections—for- tune he magnanimously waived, in con- sideration, perhaps, of his sixty years and his ugliness—made it very doubtful if he would ever succeed in putting off his bachelor state. At present, he was in a state of ecstatic admiration for Miss Powell; he had first fallen in love with her in the picture of Catharine Cornaro, which he more than ever coveted for his own—and the Sleeping Beauty had now firmly riveted his chains. “JT am more than glad to see you again,” said Mr. Hall, recovering his composure, “I was almost afraid that I never should.” “Were you?” was the reply, with a slight smile; “that is especially one of the things of which it may be said that while there is life there is hope—people who have once met are almost sure to drift to- gether again.” “ That remark is encouraging or other-

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242 TAM! THE STORY OF A WOMAN. wise, according to circumstances,” laughed Guy, who was also in close attendance upon the Sleeping Beauty, “I can imagine times when it would give one a feeling the very opposite of pleasure.” * Nevertheless, it is true,” returned his friend, “and as a general thing, the more uncongenial people are, the more you can count on being thrown with them again. Perhaps I should state, however, that no disparaging reflection on myself is in- tended by this remark-—of a lady, it is not necessary to speak in such a connection.” “But how about speaking to one?” said a seductive voice behind him. And turning John encountered a made- up sort of face wreathed in smiles, ap- pended toa gracefully-bending figure and a manner of indeseribable airiness and juvenility. “You naughty man!” pursued the voice, which had a very artificial sort of ring in it. “Here I’ve been trying to ‘atch your eye for an age, and could not even get hold of the tail of it. I have lots to say to you—whole volumes—but you are always reminding me of the poet whose soul was like a star and dwelt apart.” , “Really, Miss Grappler,” replied the captive gentleman, smiling in spite of himself, “ You must pardon my stupidity —the loss is undoubtedly mine. But I do not think I am ‘apart’ to-night,” glancing at the heads and shoulders around them. “Your soul may be,” was the sage re- joinder, “confess now, that you are not exactly mingling in what is going on— don’t you feel a head and shoulders taller than your fellows?” “T hope not,” with a look of amuse- ment. “ What an ungainly giant I should be!” “Gabrielle,” whispered the hostess, “I have something in reserve for you-—-come this way,’ and Miss Grappler was ad- roitly whisked off into the next room. “That was well done,” laughed Mr. Hall, when Mrs. Clymer presented her- self before him again, “but what disposal did you make of the young lady? There has been no foul play, I hope?” “I only called her off from worrying you,” was the reply, “and set her on some smaller game. ‘ Young lady,’ indeed, why she is scarcely a decade younger than I am.” | “But she has golden hair,” persisted the gentleman, with 2 twinkle in his eve.. “And the complexion that goes with dark brown—which is what it used to be when I first knew Ellen Grappler, twenty years ago. J should have golden hair, too, if I~.” Something in her companion’s face caused her to change the conversation; and she said rather suddenly : “ What do you think of my little country girl?” her eyes were directed to Tamzine. “She is my niece, and will be with me during the winter. The child has a perfect passion for studying art, and is entered as 2 pupil at the Academy. I have really been sur- prised at her first unaided efforts.” [t flashed upon him all at once; he had wondered how Tamzine got there, This then was her aunt; and it now seemed to him that he could trace a like- ness between Mr. Powell aad the fine looking woman before him. “T had seen very little of my brother's family,” continued the lady, “until last June, when I made quite a visit there. I kept away from them chiefly because I did not enjoy my sister-in-law’s society; and it was an agreeable surprise to find that her daughter had so much in her. There is a son, too, who is just at the age when some one says that boys should be barrelled up until they are twenty-one ; and [ should especially advocate the bar- relling system in his ease.” John Hall tried to fancy Hiram and his aunt together; but the idea seemed so utterly incongruous, that he was vbliged to give it up. There was a frankness about Mrs. Clymer that was infinitely at- tractive; and the gentleman found her society quite as interesting as that of younger women. “T feel defrauded,” he began, “that I was cheated out of my share of gazing at the Sleeping Beauty. I hear on all sides that she was exquisite; and I can readily believe it, as I have enjoyed the privilege of a slight previous acquaintance with Miss Powell. Her mother kindly took me under her hospitable roof, for a fort- night or so, this autumn, while I was writing up the scenery of that very pretty place with the absurd name.” “How very funny!” exclaimed Mrs. Clymer, with a flush of vexation on her face. She did wish that Hannah Ann would stop taking boarders; and now nia— Ther uoth.

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TAM! THE STORY OF A WOMAN. 243

here was this elegant man of the world knowing all the ins and outs of the plain little household : “T have a very great respect for the family,” pursued Mr. Hall, with tact. “JT do not know when I have been so leasantly impressed ; and I consider Miss ‘amzine one of the most gifted and at- tractive young ladies I have ever met.” “You are one of my favorites, you know,” responded the lady, tapping him smilingly with her fan, “and t do not mind your going there—it is not like a stranger. Tamzine ‘s full of talent, and that is what attracted me to her ; but she is an odd girl, and very set in her own way. She has the obstinate Napoleonesque jaw, as you may have noticed; and had quite a struggle to induce her to personate the Sleeping Beauty. She only consented when I told her she would spoil every- thing by refusing. Fora girl with such a firm will of her own, she shrinks wonder- ully from public notice.” “A most excellent quality in a woman,” observed her companion. It seemed scarcely probable that, with this draw- back, Miss Powell would go upon the stage, and he had been gradually pre- pared to expect almost anything of her. “ People seem to find her quite taking,” continued the hostess, “ your artist friend is enthusiastic, and old Blur stares at her by the hour as though he were the Laird of Dumbiedikes himself. But what do you think of the assemblage, to night?” She was too wise to talk exclusively of her niece. She continued, when Mr. Hall had expressed his approbation : “You have not met ‘C. C.’, I think? She is here, and you must be presented.” The gentleman shrugged his shoulders expressively. “Don’t, please, unless you can't help it—I do not take kindly to iterary women.” “That is nonesense,” was the reply, “ex- ploded long ago. You couldn’t help lik- ing ‘C. C’ if you knew her. She is wonderfully versatile—can write any- thing, I believe, from a high-toned novel, t a newspaper paragraph, or a jingle ot thymes to pleasé a child. You have heard her story, I suppose?” “No—spare me the relation of it, please. I have met her double in Califor- hia—and such a specimen of womanhood! There was no where she did not go— uothing she did not do ‘to study charac-

ter;’ she said (meaning it in a figurative sense,) that you must sit on a fence and talk familiarly with human nature, pro- perly to sound its depths—and I am not at all sure that she didn’t do it literally. She reminded me of a barn-yard fowl per- petually picking up sustenance of some kind.” “ Well, <C. C” would not remind you of anything of the kind, you incorrigible man!” laughed Mrs. Clymer, “ but I will not give you an introduetion now, for you do not deserve it—I wiil leave you to find her out for yourself. Besides, I am re- ceiving venomous looks from various female eyes for cornering you so long— so, go and be promiscuous as soon as pos- sible. By the way, your friend Neal Siddons is hcre—there he is now, doing the agreeable to Ellen Grappler, who wiil never forgive me for not calling her ‘Gabrielle,’ which is her noM de plume, you know, for those frothy little sonnets which she seatters about so lavishly. I am sure that wretch will have her in his next book.” Left to himself for a moment, John Hall watched the pair with considerable amuse- ment. Neal Siddons was a younger man than himself; and his fresh complexion, round- ish face, and bright dark eyes, with gieams of fun in them, gave him a look of perpetual boyishness. He was an in- exhaustible writer of the comic order, and had published severat books—while paragraphs from Neal Siddons went the round of the newspapers. He was a wel- come guest everywhere ; his gentle defer- ential manner prevented people from be- lieving half of the satirical things that were attributed to him, and he had already realized quite a respectable sum from his brain-work. Miss Grappler was now mincing and gushing at him in a most remarkable manner, and the expression of his counte- nance was as though he were listening to the symptoms of some chronic sufferer. The young lady appeared, however, to find it vastly encouraging; and pro- ceeded to inform him that she had always been terribly afraid of him by reputation. This happened to be their first meeting. “TI wonder if I am dangerous,” said the gentleman, reflectively. “If I really thought so, I would give myself up at once to the proper authorities.” = s ee reer ee se . ees : ene ee Paes oa etme

ei aise <2

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244 TAM! THE STORY OF A WOMAN. “ How do you ever manage to think of so many odd things to write about?” pursued the lady, with a graceful toss of the two long curls that hung almost to her unnaturally slender waist. “You seem to have had such a varied experi- ence of cats—are they so very numerous in your neighborhood?” “*Numerous,’” replied Mr. Siddons, looking very serious, “is not the word. I have been forced to provide myself with firearms in self-defence, and the man- servant goes out every morning, a8 a matter of course, and gathers up the slain. And yet,” he added, in a tone of gentle wonderment, “a man once actually set up a cat farm.” “*A cat farm!’” giggled Mias Grappler, showing to great advantage a row of ‘pearls that did not belong to her. “Now you are reciting one of your articles.” “Really® I am not—cats’ fur, you know, is made up into muffs and things, and passed off for something else. Do you ever write blank verse, Miss Grap- pler? I thought I had seen some—” “ Blank verses,” John Hall expected to hear him say» but just then he caught sight of Grace looking as though she wanted him to join her, and left the in- teresting couple for the present. He found his cousin engaged in con- versation with a sweet, bright-looking little woman in half-mourning, whose calm, restful face attracted him at onee. He was presented in due form to Mrs. Sankton, and the three talked together for some time. Mr. Hall was especially interested by the low voice, the readiness to listen rather than to talk, and the delicate, almost fragile appearance of his new ac- quaintance. The blue veins at the temples showed distinctly through the thin, fair skin; and the blue eyes looked as though they had shed tears. The soft brown hair was perfectly plain and braided in one heavy loop at the back, and the black silk dress was relieved only by a frill of lace at the neck. When Mrs. Sankton talked, there was a quiet strength and guvod sense in all that she said, and John Hall found her companionship particularly refreshing. She looked like a woman around whose neck little hands would cling—on whose soft lips childish kisses had been pressed —and in whom the heart of her husband might safely trust. There was an un spoken sympathy in her manner, and a ready smile, that had not the slightest tinge of conventionality on her lips. “Isn’t she lovely?” ne Pac: Grace, as the object of this remark turned aside for a moment to speak to some friend; and John Hail felt that the term was not misapplied. They talked of a great many things, and the fastidious author felt himself strangely attracted; he glanced from time to time at Tamzine, who seemed to be enjoying her evening tothe fullest extent — if the light in her face were any indica- tion; but she was more and more of 8 puzzle to him, a sort of hundred-leaved rose that unfolded by degrees. Said Mr. Hall, apropos of companion- able women: “When a man converses with an intelligent man, he remembers and digests, with a certain gain in digest- ing, that which he hears; but when listen- ing to the conversation of an intelligent woman, he is so filled up and wrapped round with the interest and wonder of her talk, that he often forgets what she says in the pleased recollection of the charm- ing way in which she says it. The man’s conversation furnishes food for thought— the woman’s for imagination; one im- proves—the other excites; one strengthens —the other stimulates; hence the compan- ionship of the woman will probably prompt to more ambitious aims—while that of the man will perhaps aid him to attain’ those aims.” “I believe you are right in a measure,” was the soft-toned reply, “still, it is rather a man’s idea of a woman’s powers: after all, some women are to’some men both inspiration and guide.” He wondered how it might be in her case; but there was no Mr. Sankton pre sent—possibly, he was no longer living. She had probably known the experiences of thirty-five years, but there was some- thing very fresh and unhackneyed about her; she seemed to him just the kind of wife that a literary man needed—she was 80 infinitely suggestive of home peace and comfort. He was not left long, however, in un- disturbed possession—there were too many claimants for Mrs. Sankton’s notice; and presently, a grand poet, wearing | seventy years’ crown of silvered hair like a laurel wreath, and with the front and —_— ro) ™ Gra arm “ said ing no 1 strel an ¢ cle Juxt pros and ter, time Mrs hous ful « com: addi ‘Th you mira the - her ‘ hom of h her? Jc and

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| UD nd a htest Trace, aside end; 3 not ings, aself time o be ctent dica- of a aved niOn- erses sbers gest- sten- gent t her says 2an’s ht— im- hens pan- ably vhile n to ire,” ither after both » Aer pre ying. neces ome- bout id of was and ) un- 1any and his and TAM! THE STORY OF A WOMAN. 245 roportions of Jove himself, bent over her—when John Hall bowed and retired. Grace had already left the party on the arm of an admirer. “That is a thoroughly sweet woman,” said Guy Rayburn, who had been look- ing for his friend. “Frail, delicate, with no visible means of support in the way of strength—but with a will like iron, and an energy that can overcome every obsta- cle that presents itself. Brought up in luxury, and married with the brightest prospects, her husband lost fortune, health, and even sight, when her child, a daugh- ter, was fifteen months old; and from that time until his death, ten years afterward, Mrs. Sankton provided for the entire household by her pen. A deft and grace- ful one it is; and her name has now be- come a household word. She edits, in addition to all her other literary work, ‘The Ladies’ Boudoir,’ a sort of periodical you are not likely to see, and does it ad- mirably, too—spending her mornings in the gloomy office, but never neglecting her child, now a girl of thirteen, nor her home—for she is the very perfection of housekeepers. You must have seen her nom de plume of ‘C. C.’ often enough?” John Hall looked genuinely astonished ; and turned to meet the laughing, triumph- ant glance of Mrs. Clymer. “Fairly come up with,” said she, enjoy- ing his discomfiture. “What a wonderful woman!” he soli- loquized. “Could anything like this ever be developed from the present Tamzine Matilda Merryweather Powell?” He had spoken very little to the latter during the evening, which was well nigh over—scarcely more indeed than bare politeness demanded ; but as he now saw his cousin seated beside her, and regard- ing her with very admiring eyes, he ap- proached Grace with the remark : “J see that you are finding the evening very pleasant.” “Indeed I am,” she replied, heartily; “T do not know when I have met such delightful people.” The girl had had her little triumphs, too; the silver-haired poet told Guy that she had the head of a Clytie, and Guy forthwith told her. She hoped that he would think of mentioning it to John— the wanted him to know it more than any one else. But she could not think of telling him herself. The millionaire had spoken of her as “that sweet, pretty girl,” and asked to be introduced ; and the young man with the consumptive mustache inquired into her pecuniary condition. On being informed of the state of affairs by an intelligent friend, he said “it was a begyarly shame for such anice girl,” and devoted himself for the rest of the evening to an antiquated heiress. Mr. Blur, although “one of our most prominent men,” as_ his fellow-citizens were fond of calling him, was not calcu- lated to appear to great advantage on an° occasion like the present; his remarks were generally ponderous, and if playful, lacked originality. Tamzine Powell had quite captivated his roving fancy; but as he was older than her father, she did not feel disposed to encourage his clumsily-expressed admiration. The country girl was new yet to city life; and although she received frequent counsels from her aunt on almost every possible point, she seemed strongly infat- uated with her own way of doing things. Perhaps it was her Napoleonesque jaw. “ And what about the fringed gentian?” asked John Hall, in a low voice. Mr. Blur was kindly explaining to Grace how “ pro-duce ” is sent to the city and disposed of, with all the various grades between the price paid to the raisers and that paid by the consumers. To all of which, the young lady, having no produce to dispose of, and not being particularly interested in the cost to con- sumers, was lending a sleepy ear. John profited, however, by the million- aire’s prosiness, to speak the first words he had yet addressed to Miss Powell that might not have been shouted in the ears of all present. Tamzine lifted her eyes slowly and looked at him. He remembered the ges- ture of old, and delighted in it—he always said that he could not endure these sky- rocket women who “went off” at the slightest touch of word or thought. “Do you really care to know?” she asked, “ because there is a great deal of it.” “T care very much,” was the reply. “T have, you know, a sort of partnership in that poem—for I introduced the flower to you, and suggested, perhaps, in com- monplaee prose, the thoughts you so gracefully expressed in verse. Where is the ‘little alpine flower’ with ‘dewy- fringed eyes’ now?” ; i} + : 1 k f 4 ; f 4

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246 TAM! THE STORY OF A WOMAN. It is such an intoxication of pleasure to | what she considers a most unseemly have one’s ideas quoted by some one who | hour.” is supposed to be capable of sauch finer The heavy millionaire established him- ones, that Tamzine thawed visibly at this | self with the grace of a porpoise on the tribute, and replied: other side of Miss Powell, and asked her “The editor of ———— Magazine sent | some very direct questions in regard to for me $10 for the poem, and said that it | her antecedents. Tamzine talked, but pla would appear in the February number.” | gave him no answers—an art in which, it did “Let me heartily welcome you into the | must be confessed, she decidedly excelled. f V™ fraternity,” said Mr. Hall, with laughing “Tt strikes me as rather odd,” remarked ha eyes and outstretched hand, “I hope that | Mrs. Clymer to her niece, when the last tha ‘the frog who would a wooing go,’ was | guest had departed, “that you never told Bu equally successful ?” me of your acquaintance with Mr. Hall | ‘™ ““The Weekly Scrap-Book’ took that | —it seems he actually boarded at the o- and wanted more, perhaps,” continued | house.” bir the speaker, with a slight increase of color. “Why, auntie,” was the calm reply, f°" “You may think me inordinately desirous | “there was no particular occasion for the of making money, and I believe I am; | speaking of him that I remember.” No but my art plans were not altogether ap- | “It would have been natural, I think, fa proved at home, and I am therefore par- | as a friend of mine,” continued the elder it ticularly unwilling that they should be | lady, “except for a very uncommunica- - an expense to my father. I choose, so | tive person.” Mi far as I can, to make the experiment on | “I suppose I am uncommunicative,” se my own responsibility. | smiled Tamzine, as though she were _ “She should have been a boy,” groaned | rather pleased with the fact, “I never o John, to whom timid dependence was far | care to discuss people.” 0" more attractive. “Bui have you not “How does Mr. Hall impress you” J 2% rather too much on hand?” he asked, | asked her aunt, “most people are very M: “Study, writing, designing, besides the | eloquent in his favor.” f m claims of society?” “So far as he has impressed me at all,” T. up : Ir is mest certain that ill tongues| We never regret the kind words we wef would be silent if all ears were not open; | have spoken or the retort we have left ous]: and hence it was an apposite saying of the | unsaid ; but bitterly we recall sharp words “i ancients, that the teller and hearer of | spoken angrily, and unkind actions that ack slander should both be hanged—the one | may have caused tears to come to eyes of hi by the tongue, and the other by the ears. ' that will never shed them any more. .

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—————= emly him- 1 the 1 her ‘d to but ch, it led. rked > last told Hall the eply, or 1ink, elder nica- ive,” were lever ou?” very all,” veing Cly- ight; rural essed e. I se for purn, fully rts to r she It ve a larly ls we > left vords that eyes WESTWOOD DAYS. Westwood! The picture that rises be- fore me at the mention of this dear old place is flooded with sunshine. What we did and thought and said during the two vacations I spent there in my childhood I have no memory of now. I only recall that we were overwhelmingly happy. But at the period of which I am about to write, all summer sights and sounds had vanished from the scene. There was no bird note in the tree-tops; no chirp of cricket in the grass ; no buzz of insect on the air. Instead, the leaden light of a November sky lay over the wide-spread- ing fields, the distant forest, and the old- fashioned house. In striking contrast with the dull gray picture of still life out- doors, however, was the festive brightuess and busy stir within. It was quite like “old times,” one had said who remem- bered the delightful and abounding hos- pitality for which the place had been noted before Judge Street’s death. “How perfectly lovely!” exclaimed Madge McNary, on entering the beauti- fully-decorated parlor. ‘“ What exquisite taste you have, Carrie! And here is where Ned and his wife are to stand; is it?” Then, bursting into a fit of laugh- ter, she said: “Isn’t it too funny to be talking about Ned’s wife ?—Why, Corrie, Corrie, what is the matter? You are ashen pale, as if struck with death; and how icy cold your hands are! You have achill, I must put you right to bed— but where?” she queried, with a troubled look—every room not needed for the use of guests in general, being occupied by kindred who had come from a distance to the reception. “Nowhere here—I am going home. Make my excuses to Mrs. Street, and— and—my congratulations to Edward and his bride.” ncountering Uncle Ben on the lawn, she said: “I must go home— I can’t stay—I have a chill, Madge says.” The old servant said he would “ hitch up and take her home in little less than no time.” To this, however, she strenu- ously objected, saying he would be needed, and that she preferred to go on horse- back. His eyes followed her as she rode away ; then wiping the tears on the sleeve of his coat, he entered his cabin. “See hyr, ole man! what you a moanin’ an’ a groanin’ about? A person would think it was Mars’r Ned’s fun’|, ’stead of his weddin’,” said Aunt Sukey, as Uncle Ben proceeded lugubriously to don his Sunday suit for the occasion. Whatever the trouble chanced to be, he did not see fit to reveal it to her. Corinne paused, when about to pass out of sight, and looked back as one might when taking a last fareweil of some be- loved spot. The short day was so near its close, the house was already ablaze with light. “They are all dressing, and —ah ! me—so happy,” she thought. The scene of a former accident, which she passed, had its torturing memories. She looked at the spot where, holding her in his arms, he had said if she had been killed life would have ended for him, for he could not live without her. “I thought he loved me,” she meekly said. Parallel with the broad road leading to town, there was another, separated from it by a slight fringing of trees. The horse instinctively took the shaded one. They had always done so in all their rides. But for this fortunate occurrence, she would have encountered the two whom she was least able to meet just then. The sound of carriage-wheels, with the accom- paniment of silvery laughter, and the deeper tones of a voice she knew only too well, aroused her. The unobstructed view of the highway brought the party plainly in sight. She was taking it in, when the gentleman turned and discov- ered the moving figure in the background. She gave the bridle a quick pull, to hasten the horse’s speed, for he was bending in an eager, strained effurt to discover if in- deed it were a familiar one. They called it a congestive chill, those who spent the night in applying restora- tives to the cold, rigid, almost liteless form of the young girl; and said it was induced by overwork in assisting in the elaborate preparations for the grand reception which was to welcome home, after his long absence, the young master of West- wood, and his bride. At the expiration of a week, she took her place in society again, paler—much (247) = Fe ne re eee ee eee eed

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248 WESTWOOD DAYS. paler, but with a look of resolution that was a balm to the faithful, sympathetic heart of Uncle Ben. Notes, expressing tender solicitude and an earnest desire to see her, had come to her daily from Edward. Once only, there had been a murmuring outburst trom her. “Oh, why am [I to be tortured thus? Why—why cannot I be left to myself?” But the surface gave no indication of the wreck beneath. Robert and Madge were going to Westwood to tea. She, too, would go with them and have the meeting over. The ice once broken, the sailing would be smoother. The most exacting mistress could not have failed to be satis- fied with the greeting she received. Well poised as she was, it came near causing the loss of her self-control. He said in introducing her to his lovely little child- wife, that he and she had for many years been so essentially one, he felt only half himself when she was absent—that she had been his sister’s playmate, and since her death, had been to him more than sister—being friend and sister both. It was pitiful that the revelation came too lute! When tea was announced, he seated his wife and Corinne on either side of him, saying complacently: “ Now, I feel at home—l haven’t done so before. Isn’t it delightful, Corinne, that there is to be no further interrup- tin to our good old charming way of reading and studying and enjoying our- selves generally ?” “Why, Ned, how you talk!” said Madge. “ You are the very embodiment of selfishness. Do you suppose Corrie is going to settle down as if she were mar- ried, too? ‘No sir; you have your wife, and—” “Yes, yes, of course; but I want both.” I want both! He had said the same when she, in trying to comfort him in his first bereavement, had offered to take the place of his sister. “But you can’t have both; for we de- cided to-day to spend the winter in Louisville, and have Mrs. Garvin to in- troduce us to all the pleasures of city life; and it may be, by spring, that she will conclude to follow your excellent example, and take our breath away in surprise by the announcement of an en- gagement and marriage, simultaneously.” Edward's face had an expression of pained dismay, that Madge called “abso- lutely comical.” After a pause he said: “What adolt lam! In my plans for the future, the possibility—the very nat- ural probability, indeed—of her marriage, did not occur to me.” Five months of city gavety ensued, with conquests innumerable, al) of which Madge—her exuberant fancy running riot in extravagant expressions—duly re- ported to those at home. Meanwhile, Edward had learned, de- spite the first glamour of married bliss, that there was a barren spot in his life— a want of his nature unsupplied. He chafed under an ever-present sense of loss, and angrily arraigned himself for the overmastering selfishness, as he regarded it, which caused the bitter protest in his heart against Corinne’s probable mar- riage. At Transylvania University, where he went to take a course of law lectures, his father’s brother was a leading professor, - and a fair young cousin consequently be- ume his constant companion. She had taken a strong hold on his affections from the first, because of a striking resemblance to his sister. There was also the pleasing association of her having the same name. He had written about her to his mother, saying that she was just what their Lucy would have been had she lived to be grown. A tew weeks previous to his return home, a chance reference to it brought forth a great outburst of grief from her, and the exclamation that she would die when he left ; for even with him there to brighten her life, it was almost more than she could bear, owing to her father’s in- ditference and her step-mother’s desire to be rid of her. A man of less generous impulses than Edward Street would have been betrayed by such an appeal to his finer feelings ; and when to this was added the charm of great leyeliness of character and person, and the strung tie alluded te above, it resulted very naturally in his bringing her home as his wife. Corinne was practical; she was also a true and conscientious girl. There was theretore no morbid nursing of her unfor- tunate passion—as is, alas! too often the case. On the contrary, she had at once gone to work ‘to bring her regard for Ed- ward within healthful bounds. She had found no charms in the metropolitan at tra tra to : of | to hor ily mo. tho ex Str sess owl and sO i Cor inte self | pati to ft thei seas wife the whi quit T to | 80 t disp quel bees the the adm any A rejoi littl nou whe her, Lue deli; cun! tidir quit Some her blan etc., C canc den] for hope no h

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30 a \for- the nce = had 1 at- WESTWOOD DAYS. 249 tractions on which Madge dilated so ex- travagantly. They were only submitted to as one submits to remedies for the cure of disease, and in the end the effect was, to a degree, beneficial. On her return home, however, the happiness of the fam- ily at Westwood proved an antidote much more effectuai. Edward was_ happy, though not as exuberantly so as she had expected from his temperament; Mrs. Street was very decidedly so in the pos- session of her new daughter—“ so like my own Lucy,” she would say, with smiles and tears—the young wife was supremely so in her fond adoration of Edward ; and Corinne was too sympathetic not to enter into this happiness largely, and too un- selfish not to rejoice in it sincerely. The summer was one of constant dissi- pation ina mild form. Every one seemed to teel called upon to contribute to it, to their fullest extent. It was the first season in society of “Ned’s pretty little wife,’ as she was universally called; and the keen zest, the childish abandon with which she enjoyed everything, proved quite contagious. The succeeding winter Corinne returned to her city friends—her grief encysted, so to speak; and feeling very differently disposed toward its amusements in conse- quence, she could enjoy the opera now, because no longer acutely responsive to the woes of its heroines; neither did the flattering attentions of her gentlemen admirers produce a feeling of repulsion any more. A letter came in time, telling of great rejoicing at Westwood over the birth ofa little daughter—whom Uncle Ben pro- nounced—“the very picture of its pa when he was born.” Other letters reached her, chronicling such events as_ that Lucy had recovered rapidly, took great delight in her baby, was such a sweet, cunning little mother. Then strange tidings began to come; she didn’t seem quite herself—was perfectly well, but something was wrong; she acted queerly, her mind it was feared was becoming a blank; Edward’s distress was intense, etc., ete. Corinne electrified Mrs. Garvin, and canceled numerous engagements, by sud- denly deciding to return home. It was for the purpose of cultivating a more hopeful spirit in Edward; or if there was no hope, to help him to face his affliction like a man, and bear his cross bravely. No one knew his temperament as well as, she. Physicians far and near were applied to, and every effort made to restore the unfortunate one, but fruitlessly. At last, all settled down to the harrowing convic- tion that the ailment was incurable; and as she was of sound constitution and so young, long years were before her of this “death in life” condition. Every day he took her out to ride or wxlk—at first hoping for some benefit mentally, and then from force of habit. It was a sad spectacle indeed—the body so vigorous, the mind dead, and the young husband smitten with age before his time. And thus two years went by. The baby had been ailing for some days. Torelieve Edward and his mother of part of their anxiety, Corinne proposed to remain and take charge of it through the night. During the evening, as they were gath- ered round the fireside, Edward reading, and she with the little one hushed to sleep in her arms, her gaze rested on him, full of pity and pain to see how he had changed since the evening of his happy return with his bride. She was thinking —sadly, too—of how his hopes of domes- tic happiness had all been wrecked, and his bright professional career thwarted. Turning from him to the unconscious cause of it, she was startled to find fixed on her the steady gaze of Lucy’s large, soft, velvety brown eyes. It was a look of intelligence—a questioning one, as if trying to solve a mystery. Soon the light faded out, and they became a blank. Corinne watched her with bated breath, and once again a ray of intelligence crossed the benighted brain. She was looking at her husband, not questioningly, but with something of the old fondness. Surely that was a tear glistening on her cheek. And then, as betore, the ftash went out, leaving only vacancy. When Corinne retired, Lucy was in a profound sleep, but the night to her was sleepless. What if, after all, the little wite and mother’s reason should he restored? What if the heavy load should be lifted from poor Edward, and life grow fair to him again? While this seemed almost too great a joy for realization, she yet felt there was cause fur hope. She had in- tended to return home next day, but | i A i } |

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250 | WESTWOOD DAYS. would now stay and watch the progress of events. The day brought no new devel- opments, except that the baby was again quite bright. She resolved to try an ex- periment. Baring -the mother’s breast, she laid the baby’s face upon it, saying : “Your baby, dear—yours—your own precious baby.”~ There was no sign of recognition. Then she clasped the little arms about her neck, telling the baby to “kiss mamma,” to “give her ever so many sweet kisses ;” to say, “Mamma! mamma!” loud. It was all in vain. She spoke to her, pleading that she would try to rouse up and be herself again. The stony look was un- changed. It was heart-sickening! Ed- ward found Corinne pale and exhausted from the strain, lying feebly back in her chair. She checked his self-reproaches for having permitted her to share his bur- den, and went out into the fresh air. Uncle Ben found her leaning against one of the columns of the porch, looking ghastly in the moonlight. There was some bond between them not clearly defined in her mind, and under its influence she confided the cause of her agitation to him. To save Edward the shock and agony of what might be a false hope after all, they decided not to tell him, until the doctor had been consulted. Would Ben go to town for him early in the morning, and ask him to drive over and watch her closely tor some hours? But Ben was an owl, and had a natural preference for night trips; he therefore decided to go at once. The doctor was out, and he waited for sume hours. It was his and Miss Corrie’s secret, and he would not leave the message with another to deliver. “Don’t, Mars. Doctor, don’t say that! Miss Corrie and me has our hopes so sot on her coming to again, we can’t stand it: we just can’t stand anything mo’!” pleaded the faithful Ben. “T don’t mean to be cruel, my good fellow, but it is no use to deceive you with talse hopes. However, 1 will come out and give the case a thorough investiga- tion.” It was late when Ben awakened, and the sun was shining bright in his master’s room when he went in to light the fire. All during his sleep he had been dream- ing of a pair of dark eyes fixed upon him in a stare. No wonder, then, that when he rose from the hearth he cast a sidelong glance toward the bed. He was amazed to find her place vacant, and his master in a deep sleep. “Oh, yes! Miss Corrie or old mist’s had done took her to their rooms to watch for the coming of the Lord.” In other words, Uncle Ben believed a miracle was about to occur—that the waters were about to be stirred for Miss Lucy’s heal- ing. But finding things in each room to be as usual, he gave vent to his astonish- ment. “Wake up, Miss Corrie! Oh, do wake quick, honey, for Miss Lucy’s done gone!” “Gone! You don’t mean it! Where?” The household was aroused, and every nook and corner searched. On all the fields and meadows before them, there was no one to be seen. Then the neighbor- hood was rallied. The news, too, flew to town and produced the wildest excite- ment. A search began which was careful and thorough. Some said she could not have gone tar; others that she might, as- her strength had been kept ‘up by daily exercise. Night closed down on the old place with its terrible mystery unsolved ; and the bereaved husband was brought in, exhausted to the verge of the grave, and crazed with despair and anxiety. Corinne, having at last seen Edward under the influence of narcotics, went to her room. Up and down, up and down, she paced the live-long night. Would the dreadful hours of darkness never end? Would the day ever dawn again? She wrung her hands: “ How long, O Lord! how long?” Uncle Ben came to her to try to comfort and soothe her, but was re- pulsed with the bitter ery: “Go away! Begone! What are you doing here while she is lost? Find her—you must find her.” Poor fellow! His heart was broken. Was Miss Corrie. too, losing her mind? His poor old brain was almost bursting in the effort to fall upon some clue. He remembered that when he came home that night the dog had not run to meet him as usual, but had stood looking away over the meadow to where it cornered with the graveyard, barking meanwhile in a mournful way; and that his wife had said to him drowsily, she “ reckoned the dog had treed a coon or some other var- mint, he’d kept up such a runnin’ and & barkin’ all night.” Ben thought if he had only been at home when the distur lov tha Wai sul wh wa san sea you tak Mi l En to nig bee gre

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nazed aster mist’s vatch other 2 was were heal- m. to ynish- wake me!” re?” very | the e was hbor- 2w to <cite- reful | not it, as- daily e old ved; ught rave, ward nt to own, 1 the end? She ord ! er to is re- way ! vhile find yken. ind? sting He ome meet way ered shile had | the var- id a f he stur-

WESTWOOD DAYS. 251

pance occurred, all this trouble would have been spared them. He had acted on the suggestion, however, indicated in the dog’s howl, and gone carefully over all the ground in that direction. This search, too, had availed nothing. Morn- ing came at last, and with it a messenger from a neighboring farmhouse. Poor Lucy was found! A frightful shriek had brought Mrs. Limerick to the cistern where Katy stood transfixed with horror. On letting down the bucket she had discovered something white in the water, and when she at- tempted to draw it up, a small beautiful arm was djsclosed. The search was ended —“Edward’s pretty little wife” was lifted from her watery tomb! It was afterward remembered that this was the last place she had visited, and that she had been somewhat agitated by Willie Limerick’s grief at having dropped his new hat in the cistern, and had helped him to get it out, and that in returning they had crossed the meadow to shorten the walk. A faint thread of coherence had thus run through her midnight wan- dering. It is much too sorrowful to repeat the history of the next few days at Westwood. In the old graveyard, side by side, lay two of the same name: “ Lucy Street, aged eleven years.” “ Lucy Street, aged nineteen.” _ Edward, at Corrie’s suggestion, was re- moved to the room overlooking the gar- den; and never did the old domain look lovelier and seem more an earthly paradise than during the lovely spring days suc- ceeding the awful calamity. But all this was lost on its stricken master. He had sunk into a stupefaction of grief from which he could not be aroused. His life was frozen at the centre, and death or in- sanity seemed impending. “Edward,” said Corinne, drawing a seat up beside him ; “ it is imperative that you shall leave home for atime. I have taken the liberty of arranging, through Mrs. Garvin, for you to join a party of leasant friends of hers and mine in a Juropean trip. Bob Letcher, your old Lexington and University friend, who is to be one of the number, will be here to- night for you.” It was evening, and Corinne, who had been the mainstay of Mrs. Street in her great trouble, rarely allowing a day to

pass without visiting her—often spending days and nights there—always doing so, indeed, when the baby, who was an ex- ceedingly delicate child, was seriously ailing—Corinne was there to-night. It was a pale, sweet, pensive face—a face in- dicating a settled sorrow, which, as she passed about the room in her round of preparations for the morrow, the anniver- sary of his darling’s birth, was seen by one who stood outside the window. With eager gaze he watched her arrange the bon-bons and decorate with greens and flowers the pretty room. Ona table near by, gifts were placed in profusion, toys especially, in multiplied numbers, for the darling who would never see another an- niversary of her birthday. A _ portrait, elegantly framed, was also placed upon it, resting against the wall. It was that of Mrs. Street’s absent son, which at her earnest solicitation, he had had painted for her. It had reached town so near the day that Corinne, who knew the occasion was not likely to prove a cheerful one, had held it back for a pleasant surprise. She stood before it now, with what vary- ing emotions her speaking face told plainly. He had now been gone eighteen months, and when last heard from had had a reiapse of Roman fever. His mother’s letters, begging for news of his condition, had remained unanswered, and might ever do so. It might be that even now he had sunk to the last sleep. Quiv- ering with emotion, she leaned over and pressed her lips to those of the portrait— tenderly, lovingly, reverently, as one might kiss the dead. Then the leng com- pression of months gave way in a wild abandonment of grief, as she sank down and laid her head beside it on the table. The interested spectator, whom we need scarcely say was the wanderer returned, received a shock which sent him reeling for support to the great walnut tree that stood near. It was one almost painful in its bewildering ecstacy of joy. She had pressed the ips, not the forehead, or the significance would have been less. True, he had come home to die; but could it be that there was within his grasp the one boon which would make life worth the living? He was thrilled through and through. He heard footsteps approach- ing, and moving rapidly away, encoun- tered Uncle Ben returning from one of his owl-like excursions. Ben’s outburst ’ f 4 ty : = arrester sensieeneeen sbeetiteerspnulitnamr nares senemmsneooensony

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252 BEAUTY. of welcome having somewhat subsided, he said : “Come right in. Miss Corrie’s: here— she ’s still up—lI see a light in the parlor. “Miss Corrie! Miss Corrie! Please, honey, open de do’, quick! Here’s good news—good news, I tell you!” The door flew open, and a flood of light streamed out over the porch. “Edward! Edward! you ?” Before her exclamation ended, he had sprung forward to give her the support which the shock evidently made necessary, and Uncle Ben discreetly closed the door. “Miss Corrie, I done cotch you dis time, sho’,”” was Uncle Ben’s next saluta- tion; nor was he at all surprised to find them in the early morning light, just where he had left them. As Corinne presented the presents she had prepared, his master said, “ I’m quite ashamed of myself this morning. I have been traveling so long, I had forgotten all about purchasing gifts. I have’nt brought any of you one.” “Please ’scuse me, sah,” said Ben, his body writhing in a sort of ecstatic contor- tion, “ but I think that’s a mistake—Miss Corrie, I reckon ’s got one!” “ Yes, Ben, so she has, a very poor one though ; but ”—his fine face lighting up— “utterly worthless as it is, she has made me supremely happy: by deigning to ac- cept it.” “She seems mighty well suited—mighty well! I don’t ‘spect to never hear no complaint *bout its not bein’ good ’nough, sah !” Ten years—ten happy years—have flown so quickly they seem only to have been a blissful dream! The dark days at West- wood have ended—sunny ones are in the ascendency now. Is it you— | It is winter again. What a charming picture !—rare old furniture, rosy warmth, soft light from waxen candles, and a fire- side group, composed of an aged mother, looking supremely happy; a_ beautiful nine-year-old daughter—another Lucy, with the striking beauty that seemed to inhere in the name—little toddling Madge, overflowing with bright chatter; a beau- tiful baby-boy, crowing in mammy Svu- key’ 8 arms ; a sweet- faced young matron ; and the handsome head of the family, “looking like a boy again.” Uncle Ben had just been saying it was a scene for an artist’s pencil! “How funny!” said Madge; “every year papa gives mamma a prettier and prettier present on her birthday.” “That is because she is getting older every year,” said Lucy, with sage experi- ence. “O, no; that’s not it. He once gave me a very poor one, and has been trying to make amends for it ever since.” The saucy rejoinder she expected was not forthcoming. Edward, so eloquent before a jury, so brilliant in conversation, so happy at repartee, was to-night without utterance. His whole being was _pro- foundly stirred. How striking the con- trast between the present scene, so replete with happiness, and the one ten years be- fore, when, standing outside the window, weary and travel-worn, with all life’s hopes crushed, a confirmed invalid, as he supposed, he had come home to die! He was thinking of how the sweet, strong woman before him had made life once more an object of value, and set all its currents flowing in healthful channels, and had thus led him out of the valley of the shadow of death, into an Eden of which his brightest dreams could not con- ceive a parallel. Mrs. SARAH MARSHALL HayDEn. BEAUTY. _—_—_—— Oh gift of beauty! with what wondrous power Shines out thy rare, resplendent, dazzling light Upon the whole wide world ; an infinite, Unbounded sway is thine, though brief thine hour. The will-o’-wisp leads men to dangerous deeps In one short night with its wild luring flame— Ob beauty! Let thy beacon light to higher sim, Not downward, upward rather, e’en o’er steeps, Lead thy true worshipers like some bright star Until thy radiance floods the heart of man With noblest, purest efforts; then, thy span Of days shall gleam upon the calendar Of womanhood with glowing rays. Thy goal Is not alone an earthly triumph rare, ‘Tis more; thy influence is false or fair— For beauty leaves its impress on the soul! —Augusta de Bubna. cus set to- bix an bre in oul an an

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eps, ar ABIJAH BEANPOLE, STOREKEEPER. * By the author of “ Miss Slimmens’ Window,” “ Bad Boy’s Diary,” “ Bashful Man,” etc., etc. “Go ahead, driver; don’t wait no longer for me,” said I to the conductor, as I stepped aboard the train. Td seen my trunk safe on, shook hands with father and a lot of the neighbors, and kissed Kitty Caraway right in the face of the whole crowd. As the whistle yelled, and the locomotive took a good start, I waved my new red bandanner at Kitty, and settled back in my seat with a feeling of satisfaction only equaled by the occasion. I had on my best boughten suit, and also a smile which I make no doubt would have passed me off for a bridegroom on his bridal tower if there’d been a purty girl beside me, which there wasn’t. But I knew Reub Lummis was a feeling worse than sour apples from seeing me kiss the one I did when I came away, for he’d made up his mind he’d cut me out in that quarter. And so he had, till the things happened which was the occasion of my present journey. It was of ‘a Tuesday I started. Wall, the Tuesday before ’'d come of age. Td been out all day, breaking ground for corn and potatoes, and thinkin’ to myself that I was twenty-one at last, and won- dering if Kitty Caraway didn’t feel sorry she’d give me the mitten, and gone home with Reub from spellin’-school the last time it kept: likewise, if father had any intentions of givin’ me part of the farm to work for myself. When. I washed myself to the pump, and went in to supper, I thought at first mother had company: the table was set so nice, with a white tablecloth, and custard-pie and preserves. “ Come, ’Bijah, set by ; the biscuits is getting cold,” said she. “Who’s here?” says I. “You be,” says she; “ you’re company to-night, ’Bijah. We're a keeping your birthday. Come, husband, set by.” So we sat down. First, I went round and gave mother a smack, comin’ nigh to breakin’ the China teacup she was setting in its saucer; but I b’lieve if I’d broke it out and out she’d only have laughed: she and father was in such good humor. Ploughing hadn’t hurt my appetite, and I pitched into the chicken fixings in * Re-published by request the same style that I’d pitched into the work. They didn’t say much till I was ready to push my chair back, and then father he cleared his throat, just as he did in the Sunday evening exhortations, for he was a deacon, and began: “How would you like to keep store, *Bijah?” Now, if there’s anything in the world I’d had an ambition for, it was to keep store; I’d never expected any such good luck, though, and I just stared at him, without exactly knowing what he was driving at. “ Because,” said he, “mother ’n I have talked it over. You’re the only child we've got to pervide for; you’ve been an obedient, dutiful son, and the long and short of it is, if you can like store-keeping better’n farming, you can just pack your duds, go down to York, buy your stock, and begin for yourself.” “ Jerusha!” said {, jumping so sudden as to knock my chair over, and cutting a pigeon-wing ’fore I stopped. “’Bijah,” said mother, mildly, “don’t swear.” “TI didn’t come within gunshot of swearing, mother. But what am I going to buy goods with, father, I'd like to know?” “Cash, my son.” “ Where's it to come from?” “From a certain linen bag in the bureau drawer,” said mother, speaking before she’d thought, for she’d meant to let dad tell the story. “We hain’t spent all we’ve made in the last twenty years,” father went on. “We've had your futur’ in our eyes; we've—” “Yes,” broke in the old lady again, “I’ve had that futur’ in my eye every pound of butter I churned, every egg I laid up to carry to town. A good many of them hard-earned dollars were put in by me, my son.” “How much is there?” I couldn’t help asking. “ Guess,” says motler, proudly. “Two hundred dollars?” “Two thousand,” said both of ’em, in the same breath. ( 253 )

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254 ABIJAH BEANPOLE, STOREKEEPER. “Jemima!” hollered I, cutting another wing. “And a hundred more,” went on marm, “that I’ve laid up myself to pay your ex- swmry to York and back. And we’ve tired the store down to the Four Corners, that Job Higginson has gone out of, and you'll have the post-office with it, and there’s great need of a store there, folks say, and you'll be sure of our custom, at least, ’Bijah, and aunt Susan’s, and a good many of the neighbors’. I shall buy all my calicoes of you, and the kersimere for your father’s pantaloons, and our tea and groceries; and you can trade for my butter, which is always snatched up; and we’re sure you'll do well if you don’t go in debt, nor trust too much; and I want you to bring on some first-rate tea, ’Bijah, and be sure and don’t buy fadey calico.” The old man had leaned back in the chair, and let mother tell the hull story, for she’d got started and couldn’t stop, aud when she was through, he went in the keeping room and unlocked the bureau drawer, and took out a bag and come in, and put it down on the table, and says: “There’s our birthday present, my son.” “Well, I hugged ’em both till they was out of breath; and I couldn’t help crying a little, as well as laughing, and marm cried, of course, and we had a great old time, and I didn’t sleep a wink that night. And that’s how it happened I was on the way to York, feelin’ about as contented as human nature is ever al- lowed. It was of a Tuesday I started. Wall, the Sunday night before, I con- cluded I’d try my luck with Kitty Cara- way. Id pretty much made up my mind she favored Reub the most; but I knew the reason of it. Reuk’s father’s house was a two-story brick, with a piazza in front, and he kept a farm hand to favor Reub, who lazed around, and had plenty of time to be perlite to the girls; while my father’s house was a story and a half frame, and I hadn’t no partic’lar time, ‘cept Sundays and evenin’s. I was better lookin’ than Reub, and smarter by along sight, and Kitty knew it; but she thought I wouldn’t be so well off. Girls, as a general thing, are mighty romantic; but their romance allers settles on a new coat or a big house, like a butterfly on a holly- hock. Kitty hadn’t heard of the’ rise in life I’'d experienced, and I calkilated on Soa a good share of enjoyment in letting her know of it at the right time. I put on my best suit, and a dandelion in my button-hole, for it was too early for other ,osies, and set out about sundown. When i come to Deacon Caraway’s, there was Kitty all alone in the keeping-room, look- ing considerable ashamed of the mitten she gave me, and prettier than ever with blushing and looking dowa. However, she soon picked up her old spunk, and began being as saucy as a spring wind, I didn’t mind her independence much, not even when she twitted me slyly about the spellin’-school and the sugarin’ off, when she’d accepted all Reub’s wax hearts and egg-shells, and none of mine. As it got along towards nine o’clock, and I knew the old lady would be calling out that it was bedtime before long, I hitched my chair close up by Kitty, and took hold of her hand. “I’m of age now, Kitty, and I'll be ready to get married next fall; will vou have me?” “’Bijah Beanpole, go along!” “Can you hitch horses with me—yes or no!” “No, of course not! I didn’t s’pose I'd give you encouragement to make so free.” And Kitty snatched away her hand, and flashed a look at me out of her bright eyes that was orfully bewitching. “Wall, good-bye, then, Miss Caraway,” says I, standing up and holding out mj hand; “you'll a+ least shake hands wit me when I’m going away to be gone so long?” “Where are you going, Mr. Beanpole?” “Oh, to New York, to buy goods.” “ Buy goods!” murmured Kitty. “Yes, all sorts of fixins for my new store. Didn’t you know I am goving to be a storekeeper—on my own hook too? Father give me a couple thousand dollars on my birthday, to begin on, and the store’s rented, and the sign’s bein’ painted ; you ought to see the sign, Kitty —ABIJAH BEANPOLE in great gold letters, on a blue ground. It’s splendid. I s’pose it ain’t as pretty a name as Reuben Loomis, but it looks very well in gold letters.” “TI didn’t know you was goin’ away, or maybe I shouldn’t have spoken s0 short,” murmured Kitty, drooping towards me like a four-o’cock towards the sun. “ How long’ll you be gone, ’Bijah?”

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ig her ut on n my other W hen e was -look- nitten ’ with yever, , and wind, nuch, rbout ” off, earts As it nd I r out ‘ched took 1 be vou. new g to ook and and ein’ itty rold did. ben old rds un. ABIJAH BEANPOLE, STOREKEEPER. 255 “Oh, two or three weeks. I’m so sorry I can’t pick out the wedding-dress, Kitty. I'd had an idea, that next time I went to York, ’'d have a bride hanging to my arm, all dressed in w hite, walking up and down Broadway, and goin’ to the museum.” “OQ ’Bijah!” she whispered, melting like maple sugar. “It’s right handy to be the wife of a storekeeper—nothing to do but to pick out the handsomest patterns when the goods come. Always plenty of pearlash and tea and white sugar when the company comes, and a bridal tower to begin with.” A pair of arms stole around my neck, and a pair of lips were turned up in a dreadful provoking way. “T don’t care the sn: ip : my finger for Reub Lummis, and I can ‘t see what makes you throw him at a “What colored calico do you prefer, Kitty, pink or. blue?” “Oh, pink!” with a little sob. “How many yards of ribbon does it take to trim a bonnet ?” ” A-bou- bou-bout four, ’Bijah.” “You've got a breastpin, I see ; the one Reub Loomis gave you last New Year's. “It’s brass,” said Kitty, pulling it out of her collar and throwing it into the fire-place. “ Did you tell me how many yards of white mull to buy ?” says I. “What for?” in a tender whisper. “The wedding dress,” “Well, ’Bijah, if you must know, I spose about ten, yard wide, will make it. Swiss mull, recollect.’ It’s a wonder I did recollect, considerin’ what come next. I ain’t a going to dis- tress my own feelings studying what Reub Lummis’s was, when he heard I was going to York, and seen. me kiss Kitty in the face of the crowd, to the sta- tion. I reckon it’s altogether probable he give her up, in spite of the pillows in front of the two-story brick. “Feel happy?” asked a fellar, setting on the seat in front of me, with a pair ot moustachers sharpened to a pint, and kid gloves on. He’d been sittin’ sideways and eyein’ me for some time. “TI reckon I do, stranger. I feel too happy to contain myself. I feel like a thrashing-machine when the wheat’s out ; and if you'll oblige me by stepping out on the platform to the next station, I'll set myself in operation.” He pretended to smile, but was evi- dently skeart, and subsided into about a dozen little finified capes that he called an overcoat, and remained there till he got an excuse for taking a seat in another var. Its a free country, ain’t it, where a fellar can’t grin when he’s enjoying himself, without being taken up for it! I sot out with the intention of having a good time, and included in the bill was the privilege of larfing as much as I wanted to. Now I’ve never been troubled with being bashful, like so many country boys. I calkilate to keep my eyes open, and if I can find out what I want to by asking questions, I generally ask a few. Some people, so stiff and sot up that they can’t answer a civil questson, call me in- quisitive, as if it wasn’t desirable to be of an enquiring turn of mind. I’ve found out pretty much ali I know in that way, easy and cheap. There was some very obliging little boys come around in the cars and give us picture- papers to amuse ourselves with : but just as I'd get interested in em, they’d come along back and take ‘em away. We was tearing along tremendously, about three o’clock in the afternoon, when all of a sudden the engine give a yell, and we pitched into the dark quicker’n no time. What had took place was un- beknown to me. I couldn’t see, and there was such an awful crashing and roaring I couldn’t ask anybedy. I didn’t know but the engine had pitched into the Black Swamp, and was making downward for a place I'd always been warned about going to. [held my breath, and grabbed hold of the rim of my hat, and you’d hetter believe I felt nowise onwilling when I saw a streak of daylight ahead. In a minute more we were all right. “What ’n thunder was that?” I made free to ask of a person on the next seat, who sat there iooking cool as a cucumbes. . “That?” said he, as if surprised. ‘Oh, that’s a great bore.” ; “T should rather think it was,” said I. “My hair stood up so I had to hold my hat on. I’m glad there wer'n’t nobody hurt. I was afraid my hat would get smashed. I set a great store by that hat.” “T should think likely,” replies he. “You seem to have had it some time.” “Going on five year. It’s my first and only. However, I calkilate on get- ting a new one when I get to York. [’m

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256 ABIJAH BEANPOLE, STOREKEEPER. going down there to buy goods. Could you tell me what tavern I’d better put up at? I don’t want none of your common affairs. I’ve got a hundred dollars to pay bills, and I want none of your cheap taverns. I want to tell the folks when I get home that I’ve see the elephant.” “There’s several I could recommend, though maybe none of them would be quite good enough. The Fifth Avenue is tolerable, and the St. Nicholas is quite respectable; perhaps the latter would answer your purpose as well as any. It’s convenient to the business part of the city.” As he was so accommodating about answering, I spent a very pleasant two hours asking him about one thing anuther, and finally it got dark and I fell asleep, and when I waked up we was in the depot to the city. It was going on eleven o’elock; I felt dizzy with my long ride, and as sleepy as if I’d been sitting up a courting. Id had nothing to eat since an airly breakfast but a cold boiled egg and a dozen doughnuts mother put in my pockets; but the idea that I was actually in the great metropolan waked me up pretty thoroughly. I foliered along with the rest. “If you want the St. Nicholas coach, there it is,” said the person who’d been so accomodatin’ in answerin’ my questions. “Good-bye, Mr. Beanpole. I wish you much success in your search after the elephant, and that you may leave New York with as ‘good an opinion of it as you had when you came into it.” “Good-bye, stranger,” said I, shaking hands with him. “I shan’t forget your perliteness in answering a few civil ques- tions.” I squeezed into the coach with a couple o dozen more, and had the privilege of looking at the coat-collar of a fat man who had planted himself on my knees during a painful and protracted ride of three- quarters of an hour, so that I didn’t get much idea of the town, though it was nigh on to as light as day. When we got out, I saw we was in front of a big white-stone tavern, considerable larger than I expected. I went with the rest into the bar-room, and writ my name in the book with a flourish that showed I wasn’t ashamed of it. There ’ain’t a more rising family in our part of the country than the Beanpoles, and I’d given writin’ lessons to a whole class of boys in the destrict school ; so I made a good big B. and finished off the pole with a quirlicu that did me credit. The clerk smiled when he examined it. I was too sleepy to care about supper, so I was took up about forty flights of stairs, till I finally stopped and asked the boy if he calkilated I wanted to go to the next world ’cause I’d come to New York fora spell. “ Here’s your room, sir,” says he. I confess I was disapp’inted to be turned into a little room no bigger than the spare room to home, when it was an all-fired tremendous big house outside. I was follered by my trunk and umbreller, and was glad enough to lock the door and go to bed. | felt oneasy about my money, which Id carried in two inside pockets mother had sewed in the lining of my coat. “If any of them rogues gets in here, I'll play them a trick,” thinks I. So I took my pocket-book, with some cents and quarters in it, and my silver watch, which hadn't gone for several years, and put ’em con- spiciously on the chair clus to the head of my bed, while I tucked my two thousand dollars between the tick and bolster, and fell asleep so sound that I never waked up till long after broad daylight. Wall, I found my watch and pocket-book safe, put on my clothes, brushed my hair slick, took a look out the winder and saw a brick wall, and amused myself pulling at a tossel ’t was hanging close by. ”“Twan’t long till a knock come to the door. I opened it, and saw a nice little feller; I thought it might be the tavern-keeper’s brother. “ Good-morning,” says I, with my Sun: day-go-to-meeting bow. “What do you want?” says he. “Nothing in particular, thank you,” says I. “What did you ring that bell for?” says he. “T didn’t ring no bell,” says I. “Yes, you did; half a dozen times,” says he. “You can see for yourself I hain’t got any bell. There ain’t such a thing in the room. Howsomever, since you've come up, you may show me down to breakfast if it’s ready, I'd rather set out to find the cows down the big woods than to try to find my way out of this.” “ Jerusha!” thinks I, as I went into the dinin’ room, “ wouldn’t we like this for a _ ew imag wais sand 80 D twel vitte and look the natu hem as if sun chic. “ j I sa and “ q said “ ( no ¢ take righ’ cam chic. 80 ’s We’ tave to pi suth: H he f ome! prin tare, than chic] ruff that on; : fish I e& ham: I bee- my | a pal as fa wlf front and Tl by; gan was whei

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ys in rd. big ‘irlicu miled leepy k up inally ilated ‘cause Lere’s I was little om to ndous y my glad ed. | h I'd r had f any play k my irters adn’t con- id of isand , and aked V all, sate, slick, AW 3 ig at van t . 3 er; I per’s Sun- 1es,” ; got y in u’ve 1 to ; out than his.” » the or a ABIJAH BEANPOLE, STOREKEEPER. 257 Yew Year’s, down to Beanville!” In imagination I had my arm about Kitty’s waist, whirling her around several thou- sand times without stopping; but I was so near starved out—not a hot meal for twenty-four hours—that the smell of the vittals brought me back to wher I was, and I got a seat at one of the tables, and looked around to see what they had in the eatin’ line. As I’ve said, I wasn’t naturally bashful, and felt as much to heme with a hundred or two of strangers as if I’d been in marm’s kitchen, with the sun shining in on the floor, and the chickens running round the yard outside. “No, you don’t, I hain’t used it yet!” I said, as a feller went to grab iny plate and carry it off. “I thought you’d like a beefsteak, sir,” said the fellar, half larfin. “Oh,” said 1. “Live and larn! I’ve no objection to a beefsteak. You can take my plate if you bring it back ail right. Say, waiter,’ said I, when he came back with it, “give me all the chicken fixin’s, and tell me the names, so’s 1 can run ’em off when I get home. We’ve heard a good deal about your big taverns down our way, and I cant abide to pay three dollars a day without gettin’ suthin’ like my money’s worth.” He seemed to be a good-natured chap; he flew around and brought me some omelet snuflle, a tip-top article, whose principal article was eggs; some pome de tare, which tasted more like fried potato than anything else; some fricasseed chicken with ruffles (as I didn’t see any ruffes, I concluded it was made out of that kind of chicken that has pantalettes on; any way, it was first rate); some cod- fish a la Nantucket, and more things than I could remember, though I writ the names down of some, as you see. I made a good breakfast, and took a bee-line for the front door, curious to get my first peep at Broadway. I wa’n’t in particular hurry to begin buying goods, as father told me to stay and enjoy my- self a spell. So when I got out on the front steps, I put my hands in my pockets, and stood a lockin’ on. There was a great many people going by; it was about nine o’clock when I be- gan to watch ’em, and by ten the crowd was greater ’n ever. I kept wondering when they would all get by, and pretty VoL. cvit.—17 soon I made up my mind to speak toa very nice genteel-looking feller standing on thesteps in front of me, picking his teeth. “What’s going on?” said I. “Is it trainin’-day, or conference, or anything uncommon?” He looked round at me mighty shary, and didn’t answer at first. I thought maybe I’d made too free in speaking to him; he was fixed up to fits, had a purple glove on one hand, which he’d drawed off t’other to show a diamond ring that made my eyes water. “Beg your pardon,” says I; “probably you didn’t know my name? ’Bijah Bean- pole, of Beanville ; everybody there knows it—settlement named after father. I’ve come down to York to buy goods. Father’s setting me up a store at the Four Cor- ners.” “Ah!” said he, bowing and smiling as soon us he heard my name. “Is it pos- sible? Yes, I’ve heard of your family when I was on a pleasure tower through the country a year or two ago. Your first visit to the city, I take it? “You’re right there, Mr.’ “Brown. Brown at your service, Mr. Beanpole. I should be pleased to exert myself in showing you some of the lions, or being of use to you in any way. You must beware of sharpers, Mr. Beanpole. You'll meet them everywhere — even among the merchants of whom you buy. You can’t be too careful. The city is not like the country, sir.” “So I’ve been told,” I answered, feeling a little skeart, and thinking of my money that I’d left in my bedroom, with the door locked. “Iam much obliged to you for putting me on my guard, Mr. Brown. I’'ts very kind in a stranger,” for really I hadn’t expected such an extra genteel chap would take so much trouble about a stranger. “T can’t bear to see young men made fools of by those who take advantage of their trusting natures. Realiy, ’'d like to have you go to the opera with me to- night, if you’ve no other engagement. Do you buy on credit, or for cash?” “Two-thirds each. I’ve got two thou- sand dollars in gold with me to make a beginning—good, solid gold.” “Ah, is it possible? Very good start for a young man. I trust you deposited your money in the safe. It’s too larg: a sum to be carrying about with you.”

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258 “T didn’t know I could deposit,” said I. “ However, I aid’t such a fool as to be a | totin’ it round. I’ve left it safe between | the tick and bolster of my bed.” “That’s right. Better give it to the clerk, though, before you go out; lock | might be picked. Did you say you’d go to the opera with me this evening? If | you'll excuse me, now, I’ve an engage- ment with a friend; but I'll call for vou at seven. What number is vour room?” | “No. 2040. Tll be on hand, Mr. | Brown.” “And so will I. Good-day; I’m happy to have made your acquaintance. Ha! I believe there’s a runaway, or something. Wonder if anybody’s hurt? Better go | and see what’s the fuss, Mr. Beanpole.” I looked up and down, but didn’t se any particular fuss; fact was, the town looked as if everybody was rushing to a fire or a funeral—a heap worse than Beanville does when the circus comes in. By this time the women were out, like pinks after a shower. You, never saw such a lot of feminines in your born days, sailing along, with their sails set to catch the wind, full-rigged. Je-whillikens, wouldn’t Kitty have opened her eyes to | see “em! They was so thick they trod on each other’s gowns, which went sweep- | ing along. “Rather expensive to sweep sidewalks | with,” says I, seeing them mostly the best | kind of silk. “ Wonder what they’ve got | their Sunday rig on to-day for?” Wall, I stood there full two hours. Then I | thought I’d jine the crowd and see where | it would take me to. ” But first I con- | cluded to hand my cash over to the clerk, as my kind friend had advised. So I went up-stairs. I didn’t need to | all in gold, every cent! | yet. | gone these two hours! unlock my door; it was already done, and | standing a little open. I went in. I A Gentat Companion.—A man who never reminds his friends of unwelcome facts or tells them unpleasant truths is | sure to be liked ; and, when a man of such | a turn comes to old age, he is almost sure to be treated with respect. It is true indeed that we should not dissemble and flatter in company; but a man may be very agreeable, strictly consistent with truth and sincerity, by a prudent silence ABIJAH BEANPOLE, STOREKEEPER. rushed up to the bed. I pulled off the pillow and bolster—my money was gone! I rushed down-stairs like a distracted person, and into the office. “Tt’s gone! It’s took! It’s stole!” “What’s gone?” asked the clerk, and the crowd gathering around. my two thousand dollars, What’ll father say? Qh, I wish I’d never come to York! I wish I'd never tried to set up for a storekeeper! He told me how ’twould be. That feller, there on the steps, this morn- ing, asked me where it was, and told me to take care of it.” “What fellow?” asked the crowd. “Mr. Brown. The chap with the purple gloves and the diamond ring. He inquired if I hadn’t give it to the clerk He warned me. Oh, Lord! Oh, Kitty, what'll you say now?” “Twas your friend Mr. Brown that took your money,” said the clerk. “Him, with the diamond ring? Oh, no! He warned me—” “He took it,” cried the crowd; “ we'll set the police on his track right away, and maybe you’ll get your money back, stranger. And if you do, you'll look out “ My money | for Mr. Brown’s next time.” “But I sha’ n’t get it back. He’s been Two thousand dollars, all in gold! Money that’s been earned by hard work, that father and mother have worked for, and done with- out! To think of the butter mother’s churned, the eggs and chickens she’s raised, the corn father’s planted and hoed, the—the—and to think what a cursed fool I’ve went and been. I'ts too bad! it’s—bvo hoo!” I could not help it, if they was all a looking on; I jest broke down and cried out loud. (To be Continued.) where he cannot concur and a pleasant assent where he can. Now and then you meet with a person so exactly formed to please that he will gain upon every one that hears or beholds him ; this dispusition is not merely the gift of nature, but fre- quently the effect of much knowledge of the world, and a command over the pas- sions. Frequently that which is called eandour is merely malice. ot el oO a sh ro he

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the ne! ted and ars, her rk! ra be. rn- me the He lerk Oh, that Oh, ve’ll way, ack, out pee sand been and vith- her's she’s and at a . too help jest sant you d to , one ition . fre- re of UP IN THE GREENWOOD TREE. ( Continued.) When Robin sank panting into the arms of Jenny Wren, his mother uttered a wild shriek. “ He is poisoned !” she cried, wringing her hands. “Go for the doctor—quick!” Jenny’s blood seemed turned to ice as she helped to lay her unconscious lover in a cob-web hammock; but away she flew like the wind. It was almost dusk now, and, at any other time, she would have been fright- ened to death at the thought of going out alone; but Robin’s life was at stake, and she forgot herself. Alas! poor Jenny! As she left the shelter of the greenwood tree, two great rough birds darted out at her, and caught her rudely by the wings. “Stay, my pretty one!” cried the first. “You are wanted.” “There is no use of struggling,” said the other. “ You are our prisoner.” “Let me go!” Jenny shrieked. “ Un- | hand me, villains! I must go! It is a case of life and death.” They laughed in her face, and, far from listening to her tearful prayers, they drew forth wisps of straw from their pockets, and proceeded to bind both her wings and her feet. “Silence!” cried one of the ruffians, as she uttered shriek after shriek. “ An- other word, and we shall gag you!” “T will not be silent!” she answered. “Help! help! O, Robin! my dear love, you are dying, and I cannot help you!” “ Quick—gag her !” whispered the first ruffian. foree down on us.” It was the work of an instant to close Jenny’s bill with beeswax. Her cries died away on the evening breeze, and all was still. She could neither move nor speak now. The two ruftians spread their wings and bore her on their backs away across the meadow to a distant pine-tree, in whose upper branches there was a little chamber in the hollow trunk that served as a prison cell. To this apartment Jenny was borne. They carried her in and laid her down upon a couch covered with corn-silk. As she looked about her, she was surprised to find herself in an elegantly furnished room. The floors were covered with a rich moss carpet, the walls were hung with oak-leaf tapestry beautifully wrought with pine needles, and the ceiling was studded with fireflies which shed a brilliant light throughout the apartment. A number of sumptuous couches and chairs were ranged about the room, but still it was a prison, for the entrance was barred by a grating of hickory sticks. As Jenny lay passively upon the lounge, her abductors proceeded to undo her bonds and remove the gag from her bill. “Why have you brought me here?” she cried indignantly, when she was once more free. “Excuse us,” they replied, bowing as they retired from the apartment. “ This birdling will tell you.” Jenny turned quickly as she heard the oak-leaf tapestry stir, and beheld—Bob O’ Lincoln! He was standing under the full light of the fireflies, pale and rather haggard from his late illness, but dressed in the height of fashion. “ Jenny!” he said, in soft, beseeching tones. “Forgive me! It is for love of you that I have done this.” “Do not come near me!” she shrieked, | as he tried to approach her. “ How dared “We will have the whole police | you do such a thing? Let me go this instant, sir! Robin is ill—dying, per- haps. I must—I will go!” “Ha!” eried Bob, with a look of tri- umph. “Robin is ill—is he? And you would leave me for him? No, no! Jenny, you shall not leave this place till you promise to be my wife.” “That I will never do!” she burst forth frantically. “No, never, NEVER, NEV- ER!” “We shall see about that,” Bob an- swered curtly, as he walked toward the door. In wild despair, Jenny flung herself on her knees before him. “Oh, cruel birdling!” she sobbed. “For the love of mercy, let me go! I (259)

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260 UP IN THE GREENWOOD TREE. would save Robin’s life, and even now I may be too late.” Bob looked at her a moment, with mingled love and anger. “Spare your tears and prayers,” he said, turning on his heel. “You shall not leave this place till you have prom- ised to be my wife. I swear it!” With this he stalked away, locking the cell after him, and Jenny sank down on the couch in a passion of weeping. Meanwhile, what of Robin? He lay in the cob-web hammock, cold and insensi- ble. Every moment he seemed to get nearer the grave, and if it had not been that this hammock, like nearly every other one we have seen, was given to coming down, he should probably never again have opened his eyes upon the light of day. But Jenny had not been gone many moments ere the hammock cord broke, and Robin was dumped right out, down upon the soft turf under the tree. It was a fearful fall, but luckily no bones were broken.” The jar was just enough to shake him up well. He gave a faint gasp, there was a spasmodic con- traction of the throat,'and up came the bit ot’ poisoned cherry. It was no sooner out of his stomach than he began to feel better. Mrs. Red- -reast had by this time reached his side. “Robin, my dear son!” she cried, lift- ing his head with motherly tenderness. “Are you hurt?” “Not much,” he answered, with a faint smile. “I have gotten rid of the cherry. I shall soon be all right now.” Bruised and sore though he was, he managed to fly feebly back into the greenwood tree, where his mother tucked him away in his nest, and gave him a cup of honey which made him feel stronger right away. “Oh, that wicked, wicked Bob!” cried the old lady,‘as she bustled about Robin. “How thankful we ought to be that Providence has saved your life in such a miraculous way!” “1 am thankful,” Robin replied. “I have said my prayers three times. Where’s Jenny, mother ?” “She’s gone for the doctor. I don’t know what’s keeping her so long, I’m sure.” Robin lay and waited awhile, but no Jenny came. As he grew stronger he grew more impatient, until finally he could stand it no longer. “Tam going after her,” he said, kick- ing off the covers and leaping out of the nest. “QO, Robin! you are not able!” cried Mrs. Redbreast, in dismay. “Yes, I am, and I am going.” The moon had risen by this time, and not a bird was astir. Away he flew far and wide, hunting high and low, but all in vain. He came back at day-break, pale, haggard and anxious. “Bob O’Lincoln is at the bottom of this, mother!” he said, as he sank down upon a twig, and hid his head under his wing—poor thing! “Jenny has not been to the doctor’s—no one has seen her, and I know that she has been abducted.” “Oh, mercy, mercy!” wailed Mrs. Redbreast. “ Will our troubles never cease? What are you going to do, Robin ?” “Do?” he cried, springing to his feet. _ “T intend to find her. I shall go to O’Lincoln, and compel him to tell me what he has done with her.” Bob had only been home a very few moments, when Robin stalked into his presence, with a scowl as black as mid- night. The young scoundrel beheld him with terror and surprise; for in the depths of his wicked heart, he had hoped that long ere this, Robin was cold and dead. “Good gracious!” he stammered. “R—R—Robin!” “Wretch!” Robin thundered. “ Where is my promised wife? Where is Jenny Wren?” “ How should I know?” his cousin an- swered, with chattering bill. “ I am not her guardian.” “You have stolen her away!” shouted Robin. “I command you to tell me what you have done with her!” “T know nothing about Miss Jenny Wren,” answered Bob, insolently. “That is a falsehood! You do know, and if you don’t tell me, I'll make you.” “You will—will you? I'd like to see you! You're a fine fellow to make pro- tessions of friendship.” “T meant to be your friend,’ Robin retorted, “but you have forfeited all claim upon me. You have insulted me, and injured me in every way you could though for years we have allowed you to a) in b: tT St

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—__ he ick- the ried and far all pak, 1 of own his een and [rs. ver do, eet. » to me few his nid- vith | of ong red. ere ny an- not ld, | to UP IN THE GREENWOOD TREE. 261 live here rent-free. Now you are able to take care of yourself, and I give you notice to leave at once. I have other tenants for these nests, and I wish my connection with your family to be at an end.” “Hum!” sneered Bob. “ You want to put us out do, you? Well, you may find that harder than you think.” “T give you due notice to quit. If you don’t leave inside of twenty-four hours, I'll find means to make you. You are in my power, sir. You will leave the green- wood tree, and you will tell me where Jenny is, or—” “T'll die first!” shouted Bob. “Very well,” Robin answered, piping a shrill whistle, which brought forward a lank, homely fellow, by the name of Yel- lowlegs. “ Sheriff, arrest this birdling.” Bob uttered a cowardly shriek that brought his mother flying to his side. “Let me go!” he cried, frantically. “Let me go!” “Away with him!” Robin exclaimed. “To jail with him! I charge him with attempted murder. Ha! ha! Mr. Bob O’Lincoln! You are in my power, and I will free you only on condition that you tell me what you have done with Jenny. Madam,” (turning to Mrs. O’Lincoln, who was all but insensible), “you must vacate these premises by evening.” There was a fearful struggle, but the sheriff bore Bob off to jail, and Robin retired. “TI won’t leave till I’m ready,” Mrs. O’Lincoln sereeched after him, “ you nasty, horrid thing, you!” “T may.as well see the Sparrows and the Martins,” Robin mused, as he walked away. “I’m afraid we'll have trouble with the old lady.” Evening came, and he returned to the apartments of the O’Lincoln’s, but noth- ing had been done towards moving. “Madam,” said Robin, with a lowering brow, “I have given you fair notice, and now I shall be obliged to use force.” With that he whistled in a peculiar manner, and immediately the house was surrounded by armed birdlings in full uniform. They all carried finely-tem- pered grass blades and rice-straw revolvers charged with grains of wheat. As they stood there in the form of a hollow square, with their hickorynut helmets on, and all in top boots, they made an imposing sight, I can tell you. Robin took com- mand of this brilliant company. “Now, madam,” he said, waving his sword in the air, “will you and your family leave, or shall we make you?” Then the O’Lincolns burst into a violent tirade. They abused Robin, and pelted the company with rotten eggs till patience ceased to be a virtue. “Forward!” cried the gallant young commander. “Rout the enemy, my bird- lings! Charge, the Light Brigade!” Such a volley as it was! Talk of Wa- terloo or Balaklava—pshaw! They were nothing to it. The struggle that followed was long and fierce, but the odds were too great for the O’Lincolns. They were routed root and branch, and fled for their lives, leaving thir former dwelling in possession of its rightful owner. “That is one good work done,” mur- mured Robin, as he sheathed his sword and bound up some trifling wounds he had received in the heat of conflict. “But I cannot rest so long as Jenny’s fate is uncertain.” To hasten directly to the county prison, which was up the water-spout, was the work of a few moments; but when he asked to see prisoner No. 9, the jailer shook his head. “Tam sorry to say that he has escaped, sir,” was the reply. “Escaped!” Robin echoed. “You great numskull! How could that hap- pen? What unpardonable carelessness!” “T couldn’t help it, Captain!” the jailer faltered. “That fellow’d beat the old Nick. The spout’s rusted away in some places, you know, and he picked his way out while I was at dinner.” “You great gawk!” cried Robin angrily. “Send “me a detective. He must be tracked at once.” The detective was dispatched without delay, and Robin, very much cast down in spirits, wandered abroad, vainly sighing for his sweetheart. “Alas! my dear Jenny!” he cried, wip- ing away a bitter tear. “What may you not suffer ere I am able to relieve you!” Half-unconsciously he wandered on and on, farther and farther away from home, and lighted finally by mere chance on the summit of a stately pine-tree. The moon had risen, the stars twinkled brightly, and Robin feli very sad and sen- ’

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262 UP IN THE GREENWOOD TREE. timental. He rarely sang in the evenings, but some strange impulse overcame him, and he began to warble: “ Wait till the clouds roll by, Jenny, Wait till the clouds roll by!” The night was still and serene. His clear melodious voice rang out sweetly as he sang: the song through; then some one took up the strain—or was it an echo? No! It was a faint, low voice—a voice that he knew; and it began to sing earnestly the sweet words of “ Robin Adair!” “That’s Jenny!” Robin cried, and his heart bounded for joy. “I know it is! I taught her that air. Jenny! Jenny! Dearest, where are you ?” “Here, Robin!” came the faint reply. “Tn the heart of the tree. I cannot come to you. I am a prisoner.” In a moment more he stood at the en- trance of the sill, and was kissing her through the bars. “QO, joy! O, rapture!” he cried. “I have found you again. Wait just a few moments, Jenny, and you shall be free again.” To secure a carpenter was the work of a brief interval. The heavy hickory bars were taken down, and Jenny was clasped once more in the wings of her happy lover. “Fly with me at once, dear,” he said, drawing her away from the scene of her imprisonment. “I fear to tarry here.” As they wended their way joyfully homeward, Jenny told him the story or her abduction, and Robin explained his miraculous escape from death by poison. “We cannot be too thankful!” Jenny murmured. “Just let me get hold of that fellow O’Lincoln!” said Robin, grinding his bill with rage. “Nay, love! Do not be too hard on him,” Jenny whispered softly. “ He will be punished in due time.” As they flew up into the greenwood tree together, Mrs. Redbreast threw her wings about them both, and burst into joyful tears. “Safe once more!” she murmured. “The detective has been here, Robin. Your enemy is dead !” “Dead!” Jenny and Robin cried in chorus. “Tt seems,” Mrs. Redbreast went on, “that he escaped from prison by way of the roof, and was hurrying away, when he was overtaken by the monster Tom Tor. toise-shell, who was up on the mansard sunning himself.” A ery of horror burst from the lips of the jovers. “Yes!” said Mrs. Redbreast solemnly. “Such was his awful end. Tom devoured him on the spot, and these few tail-feathers which the detective brought, are all that is left of Bob O’ Lincoln.” “*'The way of the transgressor is hard’,” murmured Robin gravely. “ Jenny, we will be married to-morrow. Once you are my wife, I shall fear nothing.” As he stooped to kiss her tenderly, the door of the white house opened, and out ame the young giant with the brown moustache, accompanied by a_ lovely giantess with golden hair and a face like an angel’s. She was leaning gracefully on his arm, while one white hand held a lace scarf in place about her shoulders. “That is the tree, Henry,” she said pointing up into the dear old greenwood. “Papa wanted to cut it down, but I coaxed him so hard that he has promised not: to do it. I couldn’t bear to see it come down. Mammaand I have changed rooms. I don’t mind the birds a bit. They don’t disturb me in the least !” “What a tender heart you have, dar- ling!” Henry answered softly, looking fondly down at the fair, sweet face so near his shoulder. “I am glad your father has relented, for it would have been a great shame to cut down such a grand old tree !” They passed on down the garden walk in the full, witching moonlight, and their voices died away. “ Did you hear that?” cried Robin ex- ultantly. “ My fortune is safe, Jenny! We have nothing to fear.” “ Wonderful, wonderful!” murmured Mrs. Redbreast, as she wept tears of joy. “ The ways of Providence are past finding out!” “How thankful we ought to be!” Jenny said softly. “Nothing need trou- ble us now.” On the following day they were married by Parson Crow in the greenwood tree. On account of Mr. Redbreast’s recent death, the wedding was quiet and private; but Robin and Jenny were none the less happy. They have been married now for some- time, and you ought to see the nice nest- Qt —!

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Tor. nsard ps of mnly, pured thers that >” ard’, y, we you r, the | out rown vely like fully Id a rs. said ‘ood. ut I Lised e it aged bit. dar- King near ther na | old valk heir ex- ny! ired joy. ling me- est- IN PINEY HOLLOW. 265 ful of dear little birdies they hatched out | alone. At first they determined to re- last spring! venge old Mr. Redbreast’s death by The O’Lincolns went to live in the | dropping worms on Master Teddy’s head | whenever he came under the greenwood cherry tree, and did not molest Robin at all. The two families do not recognize | each other now. Master Teddy does not kill the birds | any more, and the Redbreasts let him tree; but they don’t do that any more; for, says Jenny, “every sin has its own punishment, and some day he will be called to account for ail his cruelty.” ELEANOR Moore Hrestanp. IN PINEY HOLLOW. “You, Bill, just look what you’re a- doin’—there’ll be the mischief to pay if you harness like that.” “Serve him right if there was!” grum- bled Bill, “if Fletch Custis broke his neck goin’ through Piney Hollow to-night, reckon I wouldn’t be the only one to say ‘good riddance !’” “What's the matter o’ you, now? Seems to me, he ain’t such a bad lot—he gimme a dollar just now.” “Oh, yes,” Bill returned, viciously. “ Nobody never said he warn’t free enough | “Tsn’t that horse ready vet?” shouted | Fletcher Custis from the hotel piazza. with his money when he’s a mind to—but | he ain’t often a mind to use it the way he ” orter. “What do you mean?” asked Tom, | ? > | drawing the girth a little tighter, and ex- amining the buckle by the faint light that the smoky stable-lantern afforded. “ Mean”— said Bill. “ Look a-here, youngster, if you’d been in these parts last year, instead o’ hanging round a seine-reel down’t the fish-factory, you wouldn’t a needed to ask no questions. But I'll tell ye, if ye want to know.” “Fire ahead!” remarked Tom, briefly. “Well, if you ever saw a pretty girl in your life, it was Joe Major’s darter Vir- ginny. She was just an out-an’-out stun- ner, an’ all the boys round the country was a-goin’ to see her, when this feller from Baltimore come down an’ cut ’em all out. Well, they was married, you know, an’ they lived up t’ Baltimore for a spell; but Fletch Custis is a-drummin’ for some house or ruther, an’’s out on the road consider’ble, an’ I reckon Ginny used ter get sorter lonesome. Anyhow, it warn’t many months before she come back to the farm. An’ there she is now, an’ here’s he! Been in the country most a week, an’ stayin’ first here an’ then | there, but I lay he ain’t ben near Joe Major’s tarm.” | old woods. “Comin’, sir!” the two men shouted, half guiltily, and then hastened to lead the horse up to the step. Fletcher Custis knew there was a long, dark, uncomfortable ride ahead of him, and he lost no time in starting. Truth to say, he was rather repenting the act of bravado which had made him choose this route. “Confound it all!” he was saying to himself, “I’ve been out on the road— this road, too—too many times to mind a night ride.” It was not the ride, however, though he knew it would be long past midnight before he could reach Belhaven, nor the lonely woods, nor even Piney Hollow with its reputation of being haunted, which disturbed him. He was a brave man, as ordinary bravery goes, and would not have feared to encounter man or ghost; but Piney Hollow had its disturb- ing associations and memories neverthe- less. “Poor little Ginny!” he said, under his breath. “I wonder why I feel so out of sorts to-night? I ought to be used to the state of affairs by this time.” But the half-bitter laugh which accompanied the thought, proved that custom had not altogether hardened his heart after all. “Poor Ginny!” he said, again. “We used to have happy times here in these She was a brave little woman, ' and had about as much fear of ghostly intruders as I had. She did love me, too.” The man had no other companion than his thoughts, and there was no escape from them now. Memory plays one miserable tricks sometimes, and Piney Hollow held too many suggestions of the past for him to be able to pass through it with careless indifference. He remem-

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PINEY 264 IN HOLLOW. bered, against his will, almost, how Vir- ginia Major had been wooed and won by him. He remembered, too, the blissful honey-moon month in Baltimore. Ginny had been such a bonny little bride, and had worn her matronly honors with such happy pride. It was not at first that the serpent en- tered into their Eden. Even when the business that was necessary to provide bread and butter and the tiny little house in which the bread and butter were to be eaten, called him away from home, Ginny ordered her days like the dear little housekeeper that she was, and gave him such welcomes home as few men are lucky enough to get. “Why, in the name of all that is reas- onable,” he explained, “couldn’t Mary MacMaster have stayed in New York, where she belonged? It was she” (the inevitable cry from Adam downward!) who made all the mischief. Who ever would have thought of her going to Ginny with that tale of a flirtation that was dead and gone years before I ever met my wife? She never meant to marry me, anyhow! Women of her sort only use their money to send men as far on the road to the devil as the man is fool enough to go!” ‘Then there were tears, and scenes, and explanations in the little house—explana- tions that Ginny either would not or could not understand, for, man-like, he grew angry and impatient ; and so things went on from bad to worse, till one night he came home to find no little wife to meet him. Only a note, lying upon the bureau, telling him, with all a jealous woman’s incoherence, that he had wrecked her life—that she could trust him no longer, and that she was going home to her father’s house, where he must not fol- low her. “Pleasing sort of thing for a man to find!” he muttered. “ Well, I didn’t fol- low her, so she can’t complain of me on that score.” It was nearly six months ago, but from that night till this he had seen and known nothing of his wife. But to-night, for the first time, he began to feel something of the old tenderness, and “desire for near- ness.” Had he been altogether blameless? “Whoa!” he called sharply, as the horse he was driving suddenly “shied” from one side of the road to the other. The poor animal stopped gladly enough, for he was trembling from head to foot with sheer terror; and Fletcher Custis, despite his strong nerves, could not but confess to a creeping sensation in the region of his spinal column. It was dark—pitch dark—and Fletcher knew, though sight was well-nigh impos sible, that he was about in the middle of the dreaded hollow. Nothing could be seen, but, borne upon the wings of the wind, came a strange, stifled cry that was repeated again and again at irregular intervals. Low and inarticulate, yet it thrilled the lonely lis- tener with an indefinable sense of horror. “This won’t do,” he said, rousing him- self with an effort. “Good heavens! it sounds like the wail of a child!” He set his teeth together, and getting out of the carriage, tied the horse to a tree by the roadside. Then he groped his way back and forth in the darkness, trying to guide himself by the sound, - which eluded him; for it seemed to come, now from the ground at his very feet, now from the woods on the other side, and now from overhead—still the same word- less groan ! The horse neighed and whinnied piti- fully while her master was so engaged ; and at last, after some ten minutes spent in vain endeavor, Fletcher Custis gave up the search, untied his horse, and drove —as fast as the frightened animal could travel—away from the spot. But when Piney Hollow was a mile or more behind him, he drew rein, and began to feel rather ashamed of himself. “ Well!” he exclaimed, “I didn’t know I was snch a coward! I’vea great mind to go back and stay till I find out what that noise was—if it takes all night.” The braver impulse conquered, and al- though the poor horse made strenuous efforts to resist, it was not long before she was again nearing the uncanny place. “TI don’t propose to be scared away this time,” Custis was saying to himself. “A simpleton, to be frightened by a noise in the dark!” At the entrance of the woods there was the same violent “shying ” on the part of the horse, and in the momentary silence came the long-drawn, melancholy sound. “Like nothing on earth I ever heard before in my life,” said Custis. “I be- lieve it’s on this side of the road, after all.” Ay sear and were hear eoul pine pery St died H road “ if th plac V dite his « It touc plai pine awa liev bou upo E foot neit sud rest f ing, Gin 7 of moi car. sire mil inte fart anc cep ek ds lov son 6 “ F wif da thr the

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pon nge, and and r lis- rror. him- ting to a yped 1€8s, ind, - me, now and ord- Diti- ed ; ent ave ove uld hen ind feel Ow ind hat al- US he ay It ise of ce d. rd ” IN PINEY HOLLOW. 265 Again the horse was tied, and again the search began. Every foot of the road, and the ditches on either side of the road, were examined by the senses of touch and hearing rather than sight; yet nothing could be discovered save the inevitable pine-tree overhead and the smooth, slip- pery carpeting of “shatters” below. Still the same dull moan rose and then, died away into silence again. He stopped short in the middle of the road. “T will listen once more,” he said, “and if that sound comes from any discoverable place, ’1l make my way to it.” “Ah!” With one bound he sprang across the ditch, and with the sound still echoing in his ears, grasped a young pine sapling! It gave way with the pressure of his touch, and in a flash the mystery was ex- plained. “Nothing in the world but two young pines locked together, and anxious to get away from each gther,” he said with a re- lieved laugh, as he unfastened the two boughs that had scraped back and forth upon one another all through the night. But even while he was speaking, his foot touched something that was certainly neither tree nor stone. Stooping, with sudden apprehension, his nerveless hands rested upon the body of a human being. A woman, still and inanimate, vet liv- ing, for no chill of death met his touch. “Good heavens!” he cried, “it is Ginny!” To lift her in his arms was the instinct of common humanity no less than re- morseful love, and he bore her out to the carriage with no thought beyond the de- sire to find help, and at once. Half a mile or so beyond, the road branched off into a side track that led to the Major farm. Custis knew the way only too well, and took it promptly, careless of the re- ception he himself might receive. Poor little Ginny! No sound from her closed lips gave evidence of life, though love and tardy repentance cried out for some token. “Speak to me, Ginny!” he begged. “Forgive me, my darling—my little wife!” And yet no answer came. At the farm-house all was silent and dark, save for a feeble light that shone through one of the upper windows. At the sound of ” wheels the window was | raised, and a voice which Custis recog- nized as old Sabra’s, cried out. “ Bress de Lord! Is dat yar de doctor, at las’?” “No,” he answered. “I wish to heaven it were! Come down here, Sabra—or send somebody to help me. Your Miss Ginny” (unconsciously falling into the southern form of speech) “is sick.” “ Mars’ Fletcher!” the old woman cried, in astonishment: and in a few moments he heard her fumbling with the fastenings of the door. “Fo’ de Lord,” said she, “whar you fin’ Miss Ginny, Mars’ Fletcher?” “Qut in the woods,” he answered, briefly. “ Where’s everybody? And what was she doing out alone at this time of night?” Between them they had carried the in- animate form into the house, and laid it tenderly upon the old sofa in the sitting- room. “ Now, what’s the meaning of all this?” he asked again, quite forgetting that he had long since disclaimed all right to be consulted as to his wife’s movements. “De baby done tuk sick,” said she, “an’ Mars’ Joe an’ Miss Sally, dey was gone down de Neck, an’ warn’t a-comin’ back till to-morrow, an’ dere’ warn’t nobody but just us two. And lors, Mars Fletcher! I’se done scairt to go t’rough de Hollow, so Miss Ginny said tor me to stay an’ take cah ob de baby, an’ she’d go fer de doctor.” “The baby! Whose baby ?” he cried, in bewilderment. “Miss Ginny’s baby,” answered the old woman, with a defiant attempt to ex- cuse her own cowardice. “If Mars Fletcher ’d been here, ’twouldn’t a been no need fer a woman to go.” His child! Poor littie Ginny! And he never knew! From the depths of his suffering at that moment, Fetcher Custis vowed that come what might, he would prove that repentance was no mere lip- service with him. His wife and child (how the mere thought thrilled him!) should never again lack his care and pro- tection. There was. a slight movement on the sofa, a faint flutter of the eye-lids, and then a weak voice that struggled to find words. “My baby, Sabra?—I couldn’t—get to —the doctor’s.” “ Bress your dear heart, honey!” old ’

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266 MEMORY’S CHAMBER. Sabra bent over her with an assurance that quickened the life-pulses in the lan- guid veins. “Don’ you worry, now, ‘bout dat baby! He’s a-sleepin’ jes as quiet ’s if he was right in your arms. Praise de farm that night, for the man was at white heat. “Oh, Ginny, Ginny, my little one! How could you believe me such a scoun. drel? If you'd only told me! But you will believe me now when F tell you that Lord, dere warn’t no croup, after all! An’ here’s Mars Fletcher done foun’ you, an’ brought you home.” Ginny looked up with a frightened | start. Old Sabra obeyed the wordless command that sent her back to her sleep- ing charge, and the long-parted husband and wife were left alone together. “Ginny,” said he, slowly, “did you | really mean all you wrote? Am I to go | away again?” “She told me that you had loved her | first, and best, and ali the time,” she an- swered, with white and tremulous lips. “She showed me a letter in your hand- writing that said the thought of the obstacles between you and—Miss Mac- Master” (she faltered over the name) “maddened you! That you bitterly repented your hasty and ill-considered act of folly.” ° “She showed you that letter!” he cried, with a fierce imprecation, “and made you believe it was written after I had married ou?” “She told me so,” said Ginny, faintly. “T asked, because there was no date on it.’ “ And she lied,’ said Fletcher Custis, | with gathering anger. Well for Mary MacMaster that she was not at the Major MEMORY’S letter was written long before I even knew there was such » woman in the world as Virginia Major. I did love her once upon a time, and would have mar. ried her, if she would have consented, After I knew you, I thanked the Lord for my lucky escape.” “Forgive me,” sobbed Ginny. “I didn’t know. But, oh, Fletcher, I loved you so dearly, ¢ and I couldd’t bear to stay to—to—” she faltered, and broke down completely. But he lifted her in his arms, and the poor little woman sobbed out all her love and sorrow on his shoulder. Afterwards, as they stood together by the cradle of the baby boy who had never _ yet seen his father, she told him of her trightened, breathless race through the woods that night, fearing-with every step which took her farther from home that her child might die before she could re turn; and how, finally, she had stumbled against a tree-root and fallen. “T suppose I must have fainted,” she said, “and I might have died there if it hadn’t been for your coming. How good God has been to me,” she added with grave reverence. “Why, baby is out of danger, and you—oh, Fletcher—you have come back to me!” Dora Hasrines. CHAMBER. In the heart’s remotest chamber, Pencilled on its ruby walls, Where the light of days departed With a mournful glory falls. There are many faithful pictures Upon which we love to gaze, For there are the smiling faces Of the friends of other days. This secluded, secret chamber Echoes music to our ear, Echoes music that we often Almost hold our breath to hear. Voices of the loved departed Fill the weary heart with pain, As they echo sweetly, sadly, Like some half-forgotten strain. In this lonely, silent chamber, There are treasures, rich and rare, Such as smiles, and tears, and blessings, And a dying mother’s prayer. Words of kindness here are treasured, Spoken in more thoughtful hours, For their influence cannot perish, Lovely amaranthine flowers. In a lone, secluded corner, ‘ Memory sighs o’er buried years, And her eyes are dim and heavy With their weight of unwept tears Like a bird that vainly wishes To be free from prison bars, So her trembling spirit longeth For a home among the stars. D. Harpy, JR. It ton V that well. watc lid 0: a vie thou; fully awit had even it wa it all new- A look empt of h press not had fact havi had expe but . he w was worl W thin! alon nile the 1 desi and vent in h 80 h ing | seng T coul spec ima; ried scen fitfu a sti war dep:

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——— ts t white le one! scoun- ut you ou that [ even in the ve her e mar: sented, | Lord “5 - loved to stay down in his sobbed pul der, er by never of her h the y step e that ld re mbled ,” she > if it y good with ut of | have GS. gS; JR. FAR FROM HOME. (See Steel Engraving.) BY AUTHOR OF “A BACHELOR’S REVERIE.” It was w sad day for little Paul Hamil- ton when they carried to the cemetery all that remained of the mother he loved so well. With a heart full of woe, he watched them silently fasten down the lid of her coffin, thus forever shutting off a view of those beloved features. Al- though Paul was only twelve years old, he fully realized what death was in all its awful solemnity, for his mother recently had prepared his youthful mind for the event she knew was near at hand. And it was because he did so fully understand it all, that his heart was so heavy with its new-born grief. After the funeral was all over, he looked around the little room, now so empty, and wondered what would become of him; for his mother had fully im- pressed ‘him with the idea that he could not remain there. He and his mother had occupied this room so long, it was in fact the only home he remembered ever having. ‘To be sure, one of the neighbors had offered him another, for which he was expected to work on the farm in payment, but Paul disliked the prospect-—not that he was afraid of the work, but the master was known to be a hard one for whom to work. While Paul was sitting by the window thinking this all over , the stage rumbled along noisily on its way to the town five miles distant, where its passengers took the railway cars to the city. Paul’s one desire all his life had been to go to the city, and now he thought what was s there to pre- vent him? Nething that he could see stood in his way to accomplish the journey, and so he determined that early on the follow- ing morning he would be among the pas- sengers. That night when Paul went to bed he could not “sleep for thinking of his pro- spective journey ; he allowed his youthful imagination full play, and his fancies car- ried him through the most wonderful scenes, till at length he fell into an uneasy fitful slumber, from which he aroused with a start as the first gleam of the early dawn warned him to make his preparations for departure. Paul moved quietly about the room while he gathered together a few of his possessions, fearing to disturb the landlady from whom his mother had rented their room, not feeling quite sure he could get off if she was aware of his purpose. With the little package of his treasures in one hand and the cage containing a petted white rabbit in the other, he stood ready to leave; first, however, his glance roved around the room, resting an instant lovingly on each familiar object, while the tears welled up into his great brown eyes as he bade them all a mute farewell. Another moment, and he was gone. Noislessly he descended the stairs, un- bolted the door, and as he stepped out, he heaved a sigh of relief. A short brisk walk brought him to the village inn, from whence the stage started. At last, after a long time it seemed to Paul, who was impatient to be off, the driver cracked his whip and they actually started. After a ride of a couple of hours, Paul found himself at the railway station, and with a fast-beating heart inquired at the ticket office the fare to L———. “Seventy-five cents,” laconically replied that supercilious official—the ticket agent. Paul slowly counted his money—sixty cents was all he could make it. He looked up into the man’s face before him for some sign of encouragement to put the question which was hovering on his lips. A blank stare met Paul’s wistful eyes, and his question died before it had even been framed into speech, and he slowly turned away. As he did so, howeyer, his glance rested on the stage-driver, who was standing near, and w ho had evidently been a witness of the scene just enacted at the window of the ticket-ofiice Taking in the situation at a glance, he walked up to Paul, and holding out a quarter said: “You can pay me w vhen you come back.” Now as Paul had no intention of re- turning very soon, his sense of honor would not allow him to accept the prof- fered assistance. Paul shook his head; then summoning up all the courage he had at his command, asked “ Where will sixty (267 )

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268 FAR FROM HOME. cents buy a ticket to?” Paul’s grammar at times was a little deficient. “Let me see—sixty cents, I guess, will take you to Cedar Grove, about five or six miles this side of L.—However, I'll ask,” As he turned to the ticket office, Paul thrust all his money in the driver’s hand, and watched anxiouslv the result. Paul’s face considerably brightened when he saw the driver receive the ticket. “There now, you will have to hurry; the last bell has rung. Here’s your ticket and there was ten cents change.” Paul thanked him and hurried on into the car, and it was not until he was well on his journey that it occurred to him, the ten cents change was in reality a free gift of the stage driver’s. “Cedar Grove” shouted the conductor, and Paul picking up his bundle and his rabbit left the car hurriedly, having already determined to walk the remaining distance—which he remembered was but five or six miles—to L With a cheer- ful heart he bravely set out, inquiring first his way. It was now nearly noon, and after walk- ing a couple of miles he began to feel a little warm und tired; then he was very hungry, aud to the pangs of hunger were added those of exhaustion, for Paul had not slept well, and had had nothing to eat all day. His spirits began to droop, and his footsteps lagged, and he almost wished himself back again. He doubted the wis- dom of leaving so suddenly, and rejecting unceremoniously the farmer’s home which had been offered to him—for he concluded if he had gone to farmer Jones’ he would never have been so hungry as he was just then. Quite despondent, he slowly trudged alung. Hearing voices, he stopped and looked around, and saw a few workmen under a tree eating their mid-day meal. He stood watching them rather wistfully, as each mouthful disappeared. Finally, unable to silently endure this state of things any longer, he asked for a piece of bread. Each of the three workmen con- tributed to appease his hunger, two a piece of bread and meat, and one a piece of pie. Thanking them, he hurried on to find a secluded spot where he could eat it undis- turbed and unobserved. A few steps brought him before a low stone wall which had partially given from the ravages of time and weather, so that it was with little difficulty he stepped over it. It seemed delightfully cool and sh here, for Paul was very warm, and O! tired. He sat beside the wall and ate his lunch with great relish, regretting he had not as much more, for he gave a good share of the bread to the rabbit. After he had finished he concluded ty sit there a little while and rest before re suming his journey to the city. For the first time he seemed to realize the step he had taken; he was dispirited, and yet felt he could not retrace his journey—he knew he had gone too far for that; and a feeling of utter desolation crept over him as his present situation dawned upon him in all its dreariness, for he began now to realiz how very far from home he had wandered, and perhaps he never would see it again, In his entire loneliness he cried out “0! mother, mother! why were you taken from me!” And throwing himself full length upon the ground, he suffered his combined grief to take possession of him, and sobbed as though his heart would break. Presently this outburst subsided and he gradually grew calmer, as he began to think of what must be done next; but before he had decided, sleep, nature’ “sweet restorer,” closed his eyes into for getfulness of his present sorrows. Alone, and far from home, he lay soundly sleeping on Dame Nature’s couch, while the green trees above him whispered a soft and soothing lullaby, and a gentle breeze cooled his parched lips and aching head. How long he slept he never knew, but it must have been some hours; for when he awoke, which was by the barking of 8 dog, the setting sun was just shedding his parting glory over the scene which met Paul’s view. To his surprise, he was not alone; and he almost doubted the evr dences of his own senses, for before him stood a beautlful boy, nearly his own age, dressed in dark-green velvet, while upon his head a cap of the same rich material scarcely concealed a wealth of golden hair. The boy stood there with his hands in his pockets, earnestly gazing down upon Paul, while his little white dog went sniffing and barking around the cage col) taining Paul’s pet rabbit. In the path beside the stranger was a wheelbarrow, seater girl W Paul Paul sprin; furth: “ \ swere “ I irl. , Pa “ \ ask ec “ I Paul with him, answ TI troul her, | you | you | to de Ps talk Was | lievi cone abou and ie 4 voic from only “6, eatin was a gl twee

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ven wi weather ulty he 1 shady dO! » | ate his he had a good uded to fore re For the step he yet felt ie knew feeli as hi n in all realize ndered, again, ut “Q! taken If full ‘ed his »f him, would bsided began t; but ature’s to for: ie lay couch, spered gentle iching N, but when eof & ng his nh met is not e evi- e him 1 age, upon terial olden ands down went COM, path rrow, FAR FROM HOME. 269 seated upon the side of which was a little irl who so mucli resembled the boy that Paul took them to be brother and sister. Paul took all this in at a glance; then springing to his feet, asked how much further it was to L . “More than two miles from here,” an- swered the boy. “Do you live there?” asked the little irl. Paul mournfully shook his head. “What are you going there for, then ?” asked the boy. “T have no other place to go, and—” Paul’s lip quivered ; brought face to face with such a question somewhat staggered him, for he had no ready nor reasonable answer to make. The little girl, quick to notice some trouble in the heart of the stranger before her, kindly took his hand and said: “ Had you not better tell us who you are, where you came from, and what you are going todo? Perhaps we could help you.” Paul, rather glad of the opportunity to talk to some one whose sympathy he felt was already assured, lost no time in re- lieving his mind of his burden. Upon concluding he said: “ Now you know all about me, won’t you tell me who you are, and where you live?” “My name is Harry Russell.” “And mine is Edith Russell.” “My name is Minnie,” piped a tiny voice in a very high treble, which came from almost a baby who had hitherto been only “a looker-on in Venice.” “And we live there,” said Harry, indi- cating with a nod of his head that “there” was the fine, large, old-fashioned mansion, a glimpse of which only could be seen be- tween the trees—in fact so little that it had entirely escaped Paul’s notice until his attention had been directed towards it. “You must be both tired and hungry,” said Edith. “Had you not better come to the house and rest while we get some- thing fur you to eat?” Paul looked at the lengthening shadows. “T must move on, if I want to arrive at L—— before dark.” “But where are you going when you get there, if you have no friends?” ques- tioned Harry, curiously. Paul had a very vague idea that ali that was needful was to arrive in a city, when he would have food, shelter and clothes provided in some mysterious way. Exactly how, he knew not, but he rather expected he would be obliged to work for it. This he was willing to do; he had been brought up to work; but he supposed the work would also be provided. “Have you any money?” queried Edith, who was somewhat of a practical turn of mind. “A littlk—not much.” “How would you like to stay here all night, and start for L—— in the morning?” asked Edith, who was hospitable as well as practical. * Perhaps your mother would not like it,” suggested Paul, who had never acted independently of his mother’s wishes as long as she lived. “Oh! she won’t care,” said Harry. “Father might, but he is away.” So Paul’s objection being easily over- come, he most willingly accompanied his new-found friends up to the house. Paul had never before seen anything so large and grand-looking, such lofty halls, and immense rooms. He looked in amazement on his surroundings: they were entirely beyond his wildest imagin- ings of luxury and elegance. Polished armor and stag’s antlers greeted his eyes upon entering the wide hall; then such beautiful pictures and statuary met his view on all sides, as he trod upon rich carpet, so thick that his feet sank deep in the piling. He was yshered into a long low room with a beau- tiful oriel window at the end, seated by which, on a crimson plush divan, was a sweet-faced little lady, clad right royally, Paul thought, as he surveyed the mass of silks and delicate lace upon her frail form. She looked up from her embroidery as they entered the room, and smiled. “Whom have you here?” she asked, in a soft, sweet voice, looking earnestly at Paul, who, being rather dazed, stood the searching glance remarkably well. An explanation soon followed, upon the conclusion of which Edith received her mother’s commendation fur what she had done. “ Now, children, run and dress ; dinnez will be ready in a few minutes.” “ Dinner!” exclaimed Paul, in whose mind dinner and high-noon were indissol- ubly associated. “Yes, and you must be very hungry by this time, are you not?” asked Mrs. Russell.

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270 FAR FROM HOME. “Oh! yes, ma’am,” eagerly assented Paul, and he gave himself up to the de- lusion that he had fallen intoa very strange place indeed, where people ate their din- ners at night. When Paul awoke the next morning, he could not for a long while remember where he was, nor how he got there—in fact, doubted the evidence of his senses, and thought he must be dreaming, but dreaming under very comfortable and beautiful circumstances. Presently, how- ever, he was wide awake and cognizant of his situation, arose, dressed, and de- scended to the room he had been ushered into the previous evening. Paul found his friends there engaged in an earnest conversation, which sud- denly ceased as he entered the room. After the usual greetings of the morn- ing, Mrs. Russell, pointing to an empty chair beside her own for Paul to be seated, said: “Harry and Edith have been asking me to allow you to stay here to-day. Would you like to remain with them an- other day?” Paul, only too glad of such an oppor- tunity, willingly assented. The following day, however, rained, and so it came 2bout quite naturally that Paul remained nearly a week among his new-found friends. During this interval, Mrs. Rus- sell becoming interested in the boy, se- cured him a situation with one of her friends who carried on a large business in . The day at last arrived on which Paul was to leave, and mutual promises to see each other often, prevented sorrowful countenances for they had all become at- tached to each other. Harry and Edith accompanied Paul to the gate where they were to await the car- riage, for Mrs. Russell was going to drive Paul to L——— herself. At the final moment of parting, Edith thrust a little purse of her own knitting into Paul’s hand, and bade him keep it for her sake. Puu] afterwards discovered a gold dollar in it, and believing it to have been by accident, never dreamed of spending it, but determined to return it. Paul found his new duties of an entirely different character from any he had ever been accustomed to, but being both active und observant, soon won his way to his employer's confidence. In the course of time Paul rendered himself quite invaluable, and being thor. oughly reliable, by degrees had little of fices of trust imposed upon him, until finally, after ten years of active life, he found himself the trusted confidential clerk of the establishment. During all this time Paul never lost sight of the friends to whom he was in- debted for his success in life. He fre quently visited them, and the acquaintance so accidentally made had ripened into a life-long friendship. One morning, about this time, Paul was summoned to the private office of his em- ployer, who, with a troubled look upon his face, had evidently just concluded the pe- rusal of a letter which he still held open in his hand. “T have here,” said Mr. Reade, point- ing to the letter, “news which requires immediate attention, the personal: atten- tion of either my partner or myself at our branch office in Vienna. a time when it is impossible for either of us to leave is exceedingly awkward, and may result in disastrous and heavy losses. I have sent, therefore, for you, to ask you to take my place, to go there and take charge of the office until recalled. I feel satisfied you can carry out my instructions to the letter, and should you succeed in averting the impending difficulties and the consequent loss involved, you will be fully repaid for your efforts. “It will be necessary to go at once. A steamer sails from New York to-morrow, and this busi- ness will, in all probability, require your personal supervision for at least two years, possibly longer. Are you equal to this emergency? Can you, will you go?” How could Paul refuse such a position of trust as was offered to him? It was simply impossible to do otherwise than accept this proffered honor. “I am both willing and ready, sir, to do as you request,” promptly responded Paul, grasping Mr. Reade’s hand fer- vently. “Thank you, Paul. You are not only doing me a personal favor, but laying the foundation of your own independent fortune. Such ready acquiescence merits my deepest regard, and richly deserves to be financially rewarded.” Then followed many hours earnest con- versation while Paul received his instruc- tions. It was late that night before Paul Coming now at_ left earl) wish good self the prep not | sion ent Jittlh first out | lovil it ce the Wh beer for poss poir thes and stra uns) T gon twor par’ offe Mr. the now acti tak und Pat nat ] the tow tho the anc cha tho he wh nz ali; ma net she bes ing

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es dered thor- le of: until fe, he clerk * lost iS in- e fre- tance 1to a | was ; em- n his e pe- open oint- lires tten- our W at r of and “ses, you ake feel ons in and be be ails Isi- our urs, his on yas an l- C- il FAR FROM HOME. 271 early the following morning; much as he wished to see his friends to bid them good-bye, he was obliged to content him- self with a written farewell. The rest of the night was occupied with making his preparations for departure. He could not fail to recall just such another occa- sion many years ago, but under far differ- ent auspices. He thought over every little circumstance connected with his first venture far from home, and taking out a little knitted purse, looked long and lovingly at it. With a sigh he placed it carefully away, first, however, removing the little gold piece to his vest pocket. When years ago he discovered it had been placed there intentionally by Edith for his use, he determined to keep it, if possible, as a souvenir of that turning point of his existence. And so through all these years he had carefully preserved it— and was now taking it with him to that new strange country, the only pledge of the unspoken love between Edith and himself. * * + *K Three, four, five years had come and gone before Paul received his summons to return. In the meantime Mr. Reade’s partner had died, and Paul had _ been offered and accepted the partnership with Mr. Reade. Under Paul’s administration the business had increased profitably ; and now Mr. Reade, wishing to retire from active life, desired Paul to return and take charge of the. office. So it was under these favorable circumstances that Paul found himself once more in his native land. Paul’s first visit was to his old home, there to visit his mother’s grave. He found everything much changed, and thought he would like to go over again in the same way his first journey from home. Accordingly, he took the early stage, and smiled when at the depot he pur- chased a ticket for Cedar Grove, he thought of his discomfiture the last time he stood before that same ticket-agent, who, though now quite gray, Paul recog- nized at once. At Cedar Grove Paul alighted, and commenced his walk amid many and varied sensations. Towards noon, he knew he must be near that old-fashioned house which had sheltered him when a boy, and his heart beat tumultuously at the thought of meet- ing them once more. His footsteps involuntarily quickened as he approached, till finally he was within the very grounds. He looked around for some familiar face or object ; but it seemed so changed—or was the change within himself? A ring at the door brought a stranger, who told him the Russells had not lived there for three years. “Do you know where they are at pres- ent living?” “No; but somewhere, I believe, in L You see,” continued she, “ Mr. Russell failed, and was obliged to sell this place and everything connected with it—the horses, carriages, and even all their silver and diamonds. Soon after- wards, Mr. Russell was killed in some railway accident, and these two shocks, people said, just killed Mrs. Russell, who not long survived her husband.” =~ “ And what became of their children?” inquired Paul with a sinking heart. “Oh, they moved to L , and being young, I guess they can get along. Harry ought to be abie to take care of his sister, although I have heard that Miss Edith is giving music lessons.” “Thank you,” said Paul, and he turned to walk away. Everything was changed now to Paul. The walk had lost all pleasure to him now, and seeing an empty hack going by slowly, he hailed it, and was driven to L———. Here his search began for Harry and Edith. He tried various means, but a city is a large place to find any one with- out some clue. Determined not to give it up until he found them, he persevered, and finally in a few months his efforts were rewarded. He found Edith but little changed in appearance, and cheerful through all her misfortunes. Harry was at best but earn- ing a moderate income, and at times de- spondent. One day Paul offered the Vienna posi- tion to Harry, the one he had vacated the year previous. Harry said he would consult his sister; perhaps she would not care to go so far. “ But,” said Paul, “I don’t expect you to take Edith; she has given me the priv- ilege to take care of her for the rest of her life. We will be married now in a few months.” Harry grasped Paul’s hand warmly. * Weil, I can’t say I am altogether sur- eee

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272 BESSIE prised, old boy, and I am ever so glad, for I know none into whose keeping I would so gladly consign her.” “T am happy you feel so. And now that that objection is removed, how about the Vienna mission?” “T am only too glad to accept it,” plied Harry, feelingly. So it was arranged that at the expira- tion of three months, Harry was to sail for Vienna. In the meanwhile he gave up his position, and entered Paul’s office to acquaint himself with the business. Three months afterward there was a quiet wedding at the little church where Edith had been organist for two years. Upon the conclusion of the ceremony, and after the usual congratulations of friends, these three (or rather four, for little Minnie had now become a young lady), stepped into a carriage, and Paul gave the order to the coachman—the one word “home.” “TI declare, Paul,” exclaimed Harry, “T am very anxious to see this home of yours that you have been so mysterious about.” Presently they left the city and drove out past familiar landmarks in the pure country air. A slight shadow passed over both Edith’s face and Harry’s as they drove nearer to the old home they had loved so well. Nearer and nearer, until it was right before them; then the carriage gave a sudden turn, : ‘and they drove into the very grounds, and dashed up before the wide old entrance hall. Inquiring eyes were directed to Paul, who was enjoying the anticipated surprise he was about to give. Harry, speechless, grasped Paul’s hand, and Edith flung her arms around his neck and sobbed aloud. Paul looked worried: | he had grave doubts of the wisdom of his little plan. “Look up, my darling, at your future home—does it not please you? a Edith looked up into Paui’s face, smil- ing gratefully through her tears, and Paul, clasping her once more in his arms, whis- | pered softly for the first time: “ My wife.” | “Well, your curiosity will be gratified | soon now;’,and Paul leaned back in the carriage and laughed softly to himself. Here we will leave them—here where, in his first adventure in life, Paul had found friends, here would he spend the remainder of his life, where he had found shelter when as a boy he first had wan- dered “far from home.” H. D. Miter. BESSIE. A STORY. Come sit by me Bessie. and tell me Of what he was talking last night, ’Twas new in the first days of Adam, When wandering thro’ Eden’s fair bowers, When you stood at the gate till the moonbeams | In Eve’s little ear it was whispered, Had quenched all the stars in their light:— You came back with cheeks glowing crimson, And eyelashes glittering with tears. And a smile which, half sad, half triumphant, Still over your sweet mouth appears. Did he talk of the beauties of summer? Or praise the wild roses’ perfume ? Or speak of our arbors so rustic, Where woodbine and jessamine bloom? He told you a story! O, did he? Well, Bessie dear, tell it to me; You’ve almost forgotten it already ?— How very much flattered he’d be !— You say that you think I may guess it :— Yes, Bessie, the story I know.— ‘Tis an old tale, yet always a sweet one; I’m certain that you found it so! While she, blushing, played with the flowers. You’re blushing too! what’s the matter ?— Why, what are you crying about ?— Your grandfather told your grandmother The very Same story, no doubt !— Just three little words tell this story.— What thousands of hearts they have thrilled! How many with joy have they gladdened, How many with sorrow have filled. These three little words are— J love you !”"— You see ‘tis the very same tale That you heard there last night by the woodbine, Beneath the moon’s bright silvery veil.— Don’t say I know nothing about it; You know very well it is true !— But—Bessie, my dear—did you tell him The same story he told to you? Emma L. Crapp. F if 1 life, said mea and he 1 amu besi usué In | was, resp tive com ing the Ih “fin for play kno thin nak mol say pert my ing whe wit! nan Lal a |; bee nicl chil giv pen ver 7 wil bea son wil friv hay bet

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ers. ed! ne, THE STORY OF TRIX’S RESOLUTION. Father says that I can’t be methodical if I try, and as to writing the story of my life, he would laugh at the very idea— said life being to him but a series of measles and whooping cough, school days and school-girl pranks, a recital of which he would consider neither instructive or amusing. But my life has held something beside this, good papa; and so, with my usual wilfulness, I go on with my writing. In the first place, then, my name is, or was, Trix Stanhope, only child of rich but respected parents. My friends and rela- tives all join in declaring that I have been completely spoiled; and as I have a lurk- ing suspicion that they are right, perhaps the less said about that the better for me. I have been at school and came home “finished ”—if you know what that means, for I confess frankly that I do not: I can play a little—a very little—sing a little, know a little of this, that, and other things, and have learned the knack of making my little show for a good deal more than it is worth. I can truthfully say that the only accomplishments I was perfect in were three, viz: the art of doing my hair in various elaborate and becom- ing ways, dressing with a good deal ot «hat we girls called “style,” and flirting with all the modern improvements. My name in the original was Margaret De Lancy Stanhope, but the absurdity of such a large name for such a small creature became so glaringly apparent, that the nickname, Tricksy, I received when a child, still clings to me. The name was given to me on account of my great pro- pensity for mischief, and they tell me it is very appropriate still. To finish this description of myself, I | will say that my looking-glass and my | beaux united in declaring that I was hand- | some, and of course I believed them. You will think from all this that | am very frivolous, and I confess that I am; but I have often thought there was something better hidden under my butterfly exist- ence, if I could only find some one to elict it, and I think I have found that some one at last. But this is not methodical ; I must begin at the beginning. We lived in New York, but father has a pretty place some miles away in the country, and every summer our party of three would go there to have a good time and do just as we VoL. cv11.—18. pleased. I confess with shame and contri- tion that I generally pleased to do noth- ing. This particular summer that dates as the commencement of my story, we went there as usual, and had just got cosily settled, when one day I received a letter from my dearest friend, Mary Redmond. It was such a long, long letter, that I will not bore you with but a moderate dose. She wrote: “You dear bad girl, I can’t imagine how you can enjoy yourself out in the wilderness, especially without me. Here am I, in charming New York, actually reducing myself toskin and bones on your ungrateful account, and you have the au- dacity to write and tell me that you are growing fat/ Yes, actually fat! A fig for such friendship. I abjure women for- evermore. By the way, you remember my speaking of Will Brown, a distant cousin of mine, who is visiting here. Well, he told me the other day that Sydney Lanier had received an invitation from your father to visit your ‘Sylvan Lodge,’ and stay as long as convenient. I suppose your father—knowing him as well as | do—has neglected to tell his ‘ women folks’ anything about it, so I thought it only friendly to give you warning. Will is as gay and agreeable as ever. He and Mr. Lanier are here nearly every evening, and Mr. L. is a very entertaining addition to our social circles; we shall be sorry to lose him. Will goes soon after. I wouldn't tell any one but you, but despite his agree- able manners, I do not like him very well. He is too fond of flirting, and thinks every girl that looks at him falls in love in- stantly. He is good-looking, to be sure, but good looks can’t excuse everything, can they, Tricksy? I heard astory about him that almost makes me hate him. They say he made love to a sweet little country girl, and was really engaged to her; but when he got tired of it, he left her without a word of explanation. Wasn't that shameful? I can excuse a good deal of flirting, where both parties understand the game: but he went too far. I would tell him so too, if we were a little bette: acquainted.” And so this dashing lady-killer might put in his unwelcome appearance at any moment, and we totally unprepared tw receive visitors of any kind! For the fit- (273 ) ee | 4 |

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to 74 THE STORY OF TRIX’S RESOLUTION teen hundredth thne I mentally blessed father’s utter disregard of his women folks, and then went on with my letter, intend- ing to tell mamma by and by. When- ever we emigrated into the country mamma never would be bothered with but one servant, so she insisted that I should sweep, dust, and arrange the sit- ting-room every morning. I demurred at first, but I have found from nineteen years’ experience, that when mamma says “Trix, you must!” I invariably give in. To be sure, it isn’t often she says it. Now, on this particular morning I had been proceeding very leisurely about my work, when Nora brought in the letters. I in- stantly seized the one from Mary, and knowing that mamma was safe upstairs, busy with her embroidery, I left my work with an innate shiftlessness that made Norah smile. “If you please, miss,” she said, “ would you mind opening the door if any visitors come? This is baking day.” “All right,” I responded, not having the slightest fear that I should be called to pertorm the duties of my office. Vis- itors were a rarity at Sylvan Lodge, espe- cially in the morning. So I tranquilly finished my letter, and had again began to flourish my broom, when the gate clicked, and through the open windows I could distinctly hear steps coming up the walk. I got behind the curtain and peeped. Yes, I did. Wouldn’t you have done the same thing if you had been in my place? What I saw was a dashing- looking young fellow with a face—at least what I could see of it under his straw-hat—decidedly handsome. He was certainly not a book agent or a map ped- dler. He looked like a gentleman, and it was—yes, it must be—the hero of Mary’s letter in person. I did what was natural under the circumstances; I flew to the looking-glass. It was a vision, in- deed, that met my eyes. I had a highly illustrated bandanna handkerchief wound tightly around my ‘hair to protect it from the dust. Over my short morning dress I wore an immense gingham apron. It was one that I had borrowed of Norah for the occasion, and as she was very large, and I was very small, it gave me the engaging appearance of being about t vanish in its capacious folds. To com- plete my costume I had ona pair of dilapidated old slippers, that I only wore to aggravate pa. He had been accusing me of extravagance, so I put on the de- testable things for the laudable purpose of rousing his ire, for he does dislike to see me look slovenly. While I was look- ing in the glass, more amused at my ap- pearance than trying to help it, the door- bell gave a sharp ring. Instantly a wicked idea popped into my wicked head. I would go to the door just as I was, and make him think I was Norah. No sooner thought than done. I marched out and opened the door boldly, to meet the gaze of a pair of the handsomest eyes—I thought so then, and I am even firmer in my opinion now—that it had ever been m¥ lot to behold. The owner of the handsome eyes said : “Good morning,” as politely as if I had been a president’s wife. “Is this where Mr. Stanhope lives?” he queried. “ Yes, sir, murely. “Ts he at home?” “No, sir.” “Ts Mrs. Stanhope?” “Yes, sir.” “Then will you please hand her this eard?”’ “ Yes, sir; sir.” I mimicked Nora exactly, but when he said as he entered the room, “Is Miss Stanhope at home?” my gravity nearly deserted me, but I managed to murmur “Yes, sir,” as demurely as ever “Thank vou,” he answered ; and then | went up-stairs to mamma, wondering why he should feel thankful for the know vledge that I was home, for what did he know about me? I looked at his card on my way, and was not at ail surprised to see Sydney Lanier’s name. I gave it to mamma and said: “Here, missis, is a card a gentleman sent up. He is in the parlor, and, la, he’s such a beautiful young gentleman.” “ You ridiculous girl,” said mamma, try- ing to be stern. “ Did you go to the door in such a dreadful plight as that?” “ He thought that i was Norah,” said I, contritely ; and that, with the ludicrous fizure [ made, sent mamma into a fit of laughing that saved me the scolding I deserved. I told her about pa’s invita- tion, and she looked sweetly resigned, as she always does when any of pa’s trans ” said Norah's substitute, de- walk into the parlor, please wa (th col ‘she ha wit doy Le wa ing wit cay eye twi Ho din bes aw: La cou trie anc suc : wh gar rest resi one refi gen tha ing knc mig It and tha rat] unl is f ent idle ish and tree cha ing cro and Beer was

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ising e de- rpose ce to look- y ap door- ly a nead., and oner ; and gaze s—] er in been * the had es?” , de- this lease n he Miss oarly rmur en [ why edge snow | my oO see it to mun |, Ja, in.” , try- door said Tous it of ng I vita- d, as rans- THE STORY OF TRIX’S RESOLUTION. 275 ——___ gressions come to light. Shesaid Mr. Lanier was the son of an old friend of John’s (that’s pa), and that we must do all we could to make his visit pleasant for him. “And no more masquerading, Trix,” ‘she added, as she went down-stairs. I had no intention of shocking our guest with any more pranks, however, so I went down-stairs in as becomif&ig a costume as I could devise. I felt just a little awk- ward, but mamma introduced us charm- ingly—as she always does everything— without referring in any way to my es- capade of the morning. But for his eyes, I would not have known that he recognized me. ‘There was a curious twinkle in them that made my face color. However, by the time pa came home to dinner, we were, to all appearances, the best of friends. The days that passed after this flew away very pleasantly, for whatever Mr. Lanier’s private sins might be, he certainly could make himself agreeable. I also tried to make myself charming as possible, and I had good reasons .to think that I succeeded. You may think that very queer of me, when you remember the character Mary gave him, but I did it to carry out a resolution that I had made. I kept that resolution a profound secret from every one—Mary included. Nowif that doesn’t refute pa’s slander about aur sex in general and me in particular (he declares that telling a woman a secret is like pour- ing water into a sieve), I’m sure I don’t know what will. 1 was so afraid that I might let it slip to Mary, that I concluded it safest not to say much about Mr. L—, and she had so much else to write about that she never noticed my extreme—and rather unusual—reticence on that subject. Mr. Lanier puzzled me. He was as unlike Mary’s description of him as night is from day. If he was a flirt, he was an entirely new species. He never paid me idle compliments, he never would do fool- ish things just because I wanted him to; and yet he was so perfectly polite, and treated me in such a half-tender, wholly charming way, that I found myself admir- ing and liking him much against my will. One afternoon we were invited to a croquet party at one of our neighbors’, and as some of the “neighbor’s boys” seemed inclined to be friendly to me, I Was nice to them in return, more for the sake of seeing how Mr. Lanier would take it than for any other reason. I might have spared myself the trouble. He took it very coolly indeed, not acting one bit jealous, nor treating me differently, except that in some undefinable way I re- alized that I was sinking in his estimation. This made me ashamed of myself at first, until I remembered how he had been wont to amuse himself, and then I grew angry. This was the beginning of a quarrel we had, but the explosion came a few days later. The morning after the croyuet party, when we were sitting at the breakfast table, mamma was talking about “ East Lynne,” and she said it seemed almost im- possible that any one could have assumed so complete a disguise, that it should de- ceive those so intimately acquainted. Pa said, “Of course it was. Writers of fiction always introduced the most im- probable characters.” (Pa never read a novel in his life.) “I cannot conceive,” he continued, “how any sensible woman or girl can waste her time over such trash. Now here is Trix, as wilful as a girl can be, with her head full of trashy, romantic ideas derived from novel-reading. I wish you would talk to her, Mr. Lanier, and persuade her to read those histories you are so fond of.” The idea of Mr. Lanier presuming to dictate my reading! My blood boiled at the thought. It was too bad of pa. “T suppose you think it would take 3 very clever person to impose on you, pa,” said I, with a touch of undutiful sarcasm. “Well, yes, Trix—a little cleverer than you, at least.” And then he laughed as if he had perpetrated a good joke. That evening Norah came into the sit- ting-room, or parlor as she calls it, to tell pa that a man had come to inquire if he wanted to hire a gardener. Pa was busy reading, and felt too comfortable to stir, so he told Norah to bring him there. There was no one in the room but pa, mamma and Mr. Lanier, as I had excused myself on the plea of writing‘ letters. When he came in mamma looked a little surprised at his bad manners, for after a gruff “good evening,” he settled himself in a chair, with his hands in his pockets, and without taking off his cap. Pa, how- ever, was accustomed to “hands,” so he pro- ceeded to get through the interview as quickly as possible. The young fellow

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76 THE STORY OF TRIX’S RESOLUTION. seemed very slightly built, and the clothes he wore were much too large for him ; but he wore a fine, flowing moustache that seemed to indicate that he had arrived at man’s estate. Pa began the conversation. “You are in search of work, so Norah says.” “ Yes, sir,” responded the young man. At this Mr. Lanier put down the book he had heen reading, and looked at the would-be gardener intently. “You do not look strong encugh to do much work,” continued pa. The young man said he was stronger than he looked, and was used to gardening. After pa had asked him a few more questions and they had been answered tc his satisfac- tion, he concluded to hire him on trial: for a few weeks. “But I must have refer- ences,” said pa. “Well,” said the young man, as he rose to go, “if that’s the case, I reckon I'll have to refer ye to Squire Stanhope.” “To me?” said pa, in amazement. “Yes; won’t you give me a recommend, pa?” said the gardener, taking off his cap and flowing moustache, and making a low bow. “You rogue! Well, I know when I’m beaten—I give up, child,” exclaimed pa, going off in a big laugh, that nearly shook the house. Mamma had to laugh too, for she did enjoy a joke on pa, but Mr. Lanier was quite sober. He hardly smiled. I ran off to my room, and they did not see me again that night. The next morning: I was determined to make Mr. Lanier express his opinion of my masquerading talents. I knew I should never find out unless I asked him, and I had a premonition that this answer would cause a querrel. Both of these considerations made me eager for a chance to discover his opinion. I was in that reckless mood when a quarrel seems very desirable. I must have a relief for my pent-up feelings, no matter what the consequences might be. I even forgot my resolution, so aggravated had I be- come by his airs of calm superiority. Pa had business to look after, mamma was giv- ing Norah some directions about a wonder- ful pudding for dinner, so I was left to entertain our guest. That was just what I wanted. I began operations at once. . “What did you think of my masquer- ade last night?” I asked, smilingly. “You did not deceive me,” he answered, “TI recognized you the moment you said ‘yes, sir.’” “How?” “Your voice betrayed you.” “How could you recognize my voice, when my father and mother failed to?” answered I, incredulously. “Perhaps I have studied it with more attention,” he answered, with a look that made me conscious of forgiving him— for what it would be hard to tell. “But you are begging the question,” said I, presently. “My question was not if you recognized me, but what you thought of me.” “I have no right to tell you what I thought of you.” “Yes, you have, when I ask you.” “T would rather not tell you.” “But I insist.” “Oh, then of course I am at your ser- vice. I must admit that I did not like it.” “ But why?” “If you will have the truth, I did not think it a very intellectual amusement fora young lady of nineteen. But forgive me, Trix, I did not mean to make you angry.” I was angry, but I said cooly, “ As you are giving me a lesson in propriety, let me give you one in good manners. It is hardly allowable in polite society for a mere acquaintance to address a young lady by her first name.” I was rude, I know, but he only smiled provokingly. “Forgive me, I was hardly aware that I did so. I will not offend again.” He did not seem to take the withering fact of our being mere acquaintances very much to heart. “Mr. Lanier,” said I, with dangerous quietness, “as you seem to be in the right mood this morning, and as you have 90 kindly given your opinion of my offence last night, perhaps you would also favor me with your opinion of me in general. I think it would be improving to me, and perhaps a relief to you.” “Certainly, with pleasure,” he answered readily, with a gravity entirely unlooked for. “I think you area girl with a great deal that is good in your character, but much of it lies dormant, for want of pro- per cultivation. Through being too much indulged you have grown up self-willed, with an opinion of yourself hardly war- ranted by what you are. You have charming manners, and—may I say it?— ac the am low are less ger fral

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1 said voice, | to?” more < that 1im— tion,” S not | you hat I r ser- ce it,” d not t fora e me, gry.” s you y, let It is for a oung miled . that ring Ances Prous right ye 80 Fence favor eral. , and ered oked zreat , but nuch illed, war- have t?—

THE STORY OF TRIX’S RESOLUTION. 277

a charming face; but when you use both these good gifts to furnish you mere amusement, you cannot but feel that you lower yourself. Your faults, however, are more the results of youth and thought- lessness, than of character. You have a generous, frank disposition, but your frankness is apt to degenerate into rude- ness, as mine is doing now. I hope you will use your generosity in forgiving me if | have spoken too plainly.” I was not in acondition for using gene- rosity or any other virtue. I was mad. No other word expresses my feelings. I rose, and said with ali the haughtness I could summon : “Thank you. You are frank, to say the least. After this I will not inflict any of my ‘charming manners’ upon you, either for your amusement or mine.” And I swept away, to let him reflect over his conduct at his leisure. I tried to be very dignified, but I imagined that I saw the ghost of a smile lurking under his mustache; and that did not improve my temper at all. For the next two or three days I was coldly unapproachable. My “ young man”—as Norah calls him— at first took it wery coolly, but as the day drew near that he was to leave us, and still he saw no signs of a thaw, he grew visibly uneasy. The day before his de- parture he went hunting, but the only trophy he brought home was a great bunch of delicate wild flowers. He sent them up to my room by Norah. She smiled a little as she handed them and a little note to me. Doubtless she was thinking of her young man. As svon as she was gone [ hastily opened my note. It read: “T send you a peace offering: will you accept it? If I was rude the other day,

. | beg your pardon; but you should re- member that my offence was only truth- tully answering a question you asked me. I cannot bear to part from you in anger, so I am willing to ask forgiveness, and to say that I am extremely sorry for hurting you; still, Ido not retract what I suid. As to-morrow I shall relieve you of my presence, won’t you be good to me this one evening? If you forgive me, wear my flowers.” It was not a meek epistle, and I am not sure that I should have forgiven him, but I did it for the sake of my resolution. When I went into the sitting-room that evening, a spray of pink flowers nestled

in my hair, another at my throat. Mr. Lanier smiled so radiantly when he saw me, that I was conscious of an inward faltering of my purpose. I felt like a hypocrite with his flowers in my hair, and the memory of my resolution in my heart. How well I remember that night. We sat on the porch all the warm, summer evening, with the moonlight trembling through the vines about us. We were quite alone, and we talked on rapidly and merrily. At last something recalled the fact that he was to leave on the morrow, and then there was along silence. It was broken by him, in rather a startling man- ner. He turned to me in the moonlight, and I could see that his face was very ser- ious. “ Trix,” he said earnestly, “ I have some- thing to tell you before I go to-morrow— something that I cannot leave unsaid. I[ love you, dear, with all my heart, and [ want you to be my wife. Will you?” I had thought if he should ever say those words, it would be very easy to answer him. But now, when he spoke them so earnestly, so tenderly, I sat con- fused, tongue-tied, yet with a strange blissful feeling at my heart, that I knew had no business there. He leaned forward and took my hand. His face was danger- ously near mine, and a subtle, blissful spell bound me and held me fast. Then he spoke again. “T am awkward in my love-making, for I never spoke a word of love to any other woman, except my mother. But can’t you love mea little? Give me my answer, Trix.” I remembered Mary’s letter. I believed —God forgive me—that he was lying to me. I snatched my hand from him and rose. “My answer is: No, no—a thousand times no,” and I fled. It should have been a happy and tri- umphant girl that went to bed that night, but instead, she was as forlorn and miser- able a little wretch as ever crept into bed, to ery all night. Hadn’t I kept my reso- lution? Hadn’t I triumphed over that male coquette? Yes, but it was a triumph dearly bought. He was gone beture I was up the next morning, leaving his adieux with mamma. The days that fol- lowed passed miserably enough. I moped all day, and cried nights. Mamma could see that something was wrong, but she wisely kept silent, like the jewel that she

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278 . FROM ELODIE. is. I had neglected to write to Mary Red- mond, but one day I got a letter from her, though I had not answered her last one. I opened it listlessly enough, but before long I came to a sentence that riveted my attention. She wrote: “T have something to tell you, though | you hardly deserve to hear it, after neglect- ing me so long. I am going to marry Will Brown. I suppose you will be sur- prised to hear it after the reputation I gave him in one of my letters, but that was all a mistake. He told me all about that country girl affair, and really he was not to blame in the least. “What did you do to Mr. Lanier while he was at Sylvan Lodge? There isn’t one bit of fun in him since he came back. Did he fall in love with your bewitching little ways? If you refused him, Trix, you were a goose. He is one of the truest and best of men.” Then she branched off on another sub- ject, but I dropped her letter and sat there stunned. The only thought I was capable of was, what a fool I had been. That fact was forcibly present with me. Why, oh why, had I been such an idiot as to twist her other letter the way I had. I hunted it up and read it carefully. She had mixed the names, so that my mistake was not to be wondered at. While I was sitting there with the letters before me, mamma came in. Seeing me looking so forlorn, she came and put her arms around me saying tenderly, “What is the matter with my little girl?” Of course I cried—I couldn’t help it— and when I had told her the whole story I felt somewhat comforted. Mamma petted and pitied me, and then she gave me a little lecture, that I received very contritely. I felt that I deserved to be miserable for the rest of my life, About a week after that mamma called me one day and told me to go in the sitting room and I would find some medi- cine that pa had brought me. I made up | a face at thought of the mediciue, and [ wickedly made up my mind, as I started, that I would throw the abominable stuff out of the window. I opened the door, to be nearly paralyzed with the sight of my = medicine. It was Sydney. He said, “ Trix, my darling,” and then, somehow, I found myself in his arms, crying and asking him to forgive me, and going on in the most absurd manner imaginable. It is needless to say that he did forgive me. Mamma came in to see the effects of her medicine, and found it had worked a miracle. Instead of the moping maiden of the last few weeks, she found a girl with sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks, and a happy heart that rippled over in merry talk. Yes, I was happy, and cared not who knew it. Pa might tease, and mamma laugh at me, but I “walked on air.” Love works wonders. Here was I, self- willed, spoiled, thinking all my life that when my lover came he was to be a slave to my caprices; and now that he had come, I was only happy in doing as he wished. The story of my “ Resolution ” ~— wy FROM ELODIE. a Could I but come once more, dear Will, From out this land beyond death’s rolling tide ; Could I once more delicious being thrill . In thy loved arms to nestle and abide. Oh, could I come from realms of endless day And press your lips for kisses as of old ; Oh, could I cleave, white winged, the shining way, And let your clasp my beating heart enfold. Dear Will, thou loved one of earth’s blissful time, How I would haste to cleave ethereal blue At thy sweet call, so plaintive and sublime, And give up heaven, dear one, alone for you. But ne’er again can angel pinions sweep Their downward flight witk souls of the re- deemed ; Oh, ne’er again, through this vast azure deep, Can I return where golden sunlight gleamed. The shining worlds are fading out of sight, | Andé glittering stars are drifting ‘neath my feet, As angels bear me to the realms of light, And songs float down from where the arches meet. The dazzling radiance from the heavenly land Is streaming through its pearly gates ajar; And with triumphant shouts, its white-robed band I see upun its glittering walls afar. The great and good from every age and clime In countless numbers throng each golden street, Where crowns of stars replace the thorns of time And crystal waters heal the bruised feet. And there I’ll wait, dear, precious one, for thee And watch upon the shining battlements above There you will clasp once more your Elodie, Redeemed by Christ and cherished by my love W. A. PErers.

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es Ip it— e story [amma e gave d very 7 to be called in the medi- ide up and [ arted, » stuff DOr, to of my said, ehow, y and ng on ble. rgive cts of ced a iden with ind a lerry not mma air.” self- that lave ome, hed. ere. R. feet, ches d bed e den ime IN WIND AND STORM. It was a dark day, for the sun could not break through the clouds that massed themselves against the sky, surging up, in a wild chaos that took the form of an im- mense torrent, rolling against and over a mighty mountain range. The wind was low, though now and then a gust of greater furce would come roaring along the water, sending the waves in to tumble on the beach, and make the boats anchored just inside of the point toss and swing about with an unpleasant motion. Far out to sea, the straining masts of two or three vessels showed their close reefed topsails swelling out as they caught the blast, and the black hulls bent over, as, dashing the foam away from their bows, | they made a long tack off shore. only their jibs flying, and the women on the beach clasped their hands beneath their aprons with that fierce intensity which tells of anxious thought, or shaded their eyes to see how the distance between their loved ones and the shore lessened. Upon the hill sheltering the village, where the richer people of Stormceliff had made their homes, a young girl paced back and forth on the wide veranda, that ran along the front of an old and com- fortable-looking house. The narrow sweep of the bay, and the wide reach of the ocean lying beyond the point, were both open to her gaze, and she saw the fishing craft come speeding in, and the larger vessels making for an offing, and her thought went far along the sea, for one who had parted with her three long years before was sailing somewhere on its trackless depths. She was ambitious, and while she loved her blue-eyed sailor sweetheart, she had said, when he had asked for the one price- less boon of her life: “Wait, Ralph, till you command the Sea King, and then ask me.” The Sea King was a fine ship, half clipper, owned in Stormeliff, and Raiph Warden was second officer of her; and | when she sailed away on her next voyage, he said, as he looked back at the old house on the hill, where a tiny white | handkerchief fluttered in signal of good- bye, and God-speed : Nearer, | a fleet of fishing smacks drove in with | | his letters were full of cheer; for no even though I have to own the Sea King to do it.” For Ralph Warden was a patient, thoughtful tellow, with a great, warm heart, and a deep insight into the mys- teries of that strangest of all mysteries, the human soul; and he knew that Ruth Arton, even though ambitious, was brave and tender; and that, should the time of trial come, her soul would shine with a radiance of strength and trust, that would prove a treasure to any man. So he had held his peace, saying only: “It shall be as you wish, Ruth,” and had sailed away to the blue reaches of the ocean, leaving Ruth to waken to the knowledge that she loved him, when it was too late to tell him this. He wrote to her from every port, and matter how hard the work, Ralph always had a smile and a helping word to give to those who would be apt to treasure such; and this was of great use in his career, for the men liked him, and worked hard to please him, and the Sea King never made better speed than when he had the watch. Old Captain Cowden, who was largely her owner, soon found it convenient to make him first officer, and just before the second year of the voyage closed, the old captain was taken sick and had to come home, and Ralph was made skipper of the ship. She did so well that she was kept out three years, and then it was deemed best to bring her home for a careful refitting ; so she took freight for Boston, from whence she was to run down to Stormeliff in ballast. She had left Shanghai in June, and it was September now, and she should be near the home land. But how near? And was she in the path of the great storm that was roaring up the Gulf Stream, and beating the long Atlantic coast with wild and foaming surges ? These were the questions that filled Ruth’s mind with anxious thoughts, and | made her pace the veranda with a quick | | and restless tread. She saw the fishing craft run in and round the point, the last one or two bending far over as a gust, heavier than the preceding, struck them; “I will win you yet, my little lady, - but they all reached their anchorage ir ( 279 )

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280 . IN WIND ANDSTORM. safety. She saw the dark cloud-mass grow denser, and the mist that lay near the sea roll in, and hide the large vessels; and the gloom of night come on with that chill suddenness which belongs to times of storm. Then the door that led from the ver- anda opened, and a pleasant-faced, white- haired lady appeared, and joined Ruth in her walk. “Ts it not a dark day, auntie?” said the younger woman, “and the night will be fearful in its wildness.” “T know it, but the fishing boats are all in, and the ships that were near shore have reached an ofling.” “They may be driven in again, aunty.” “Not if they are well handled. I do not think the Sea King would be, do you?” “T cannot say. Ralph has often told me that in some gales the ships were just driven as the wind might blow.” “T know this may be, but I hope the warning has been long enough to enable all to make a harbor, or gain the open zea.” “T hope so, aunty, and I hope the Sea King is not in the path of the storm.” There was a perfect sympathy between Ruth and the aunt, who had been a kind and loving friend, as well as a watchful guardian to the little girl left in her care; and so the elder woman only placed her arm about Ruth’s form in a tender em- brace, and as the gloom deepened, and the storm roar grew in volume, they went in, and soon the windows fronting the bay were ablaze with light. It was Ruth’s fancy. “How cheerful it must be,” she would say, “to see the light stream out from the hill-side, and know that home is so near.” And so the curtains were always drawn wide apart, and the light shone clear and far from the windows of the old house, and more than one belated fisherman had blessed the young gir! for the cheer these lights had given. Supper over, and the evening paper read, for Stormcliff was so neara large town that it enjoyed the luxury of a look at the afternoon journals of its bustling neigh- bor, Ruth went toa window and looked out. The night had deepened, the wind had risen to a heavy gale, and now and then fierce squalls would come surging in, shaking the building on the hill, and ¢ sending the salt spray flying far in land. The watchful eve of the light-house or the point shone red and clear, though now and then a thicker mass of vapor would sweep in, and make the flame glow with a deep and lurid intensity. As Ruth gazed the clock chimed nine, and she was about turning away from her place of look-out, when she saw, far out sea-ward, the lights of a vessel. ‘ Curiosity prompted her to wait, and in a little time, she knew that the vessel was heading in shore. “Aunty! Aunty!” she cried, “a vessel is driving in for the harbor,” and her aunt came to her side, and saw that she was right. “Tt is a venturesome thing to do, even if he knows the passage. I wonder if it is one of the fishing fleet. Did you notice whether one was missing, Ruth ?” “T did not.” “Tt may be a smack.” “No, Aunty, it is a larger vessel, and. she is driving in fast.” And the wind, which was now a fierce hurricane, was forcing the vessel ahead at a fearful rate, though it was evident that she was well handled, and that her com- mander knew something of the harbor. The news of her approach had become known throughout Stormeliff, and despite the wind and rain, many people were out on the beach, watching her. Ruth could not keep still. She had walked the room till it seemed that she had been in every part of it, and she had been out on the veranda, and back, but this did not allay her excitement. “T must go down to the shore, aunty,” she said at last. “I cannot stay in the house any longer.” “ Be careful, Ruth dear; it is a dreadful night, and I fear that you will get thoroughly wet. Do not expose yourself too much.” “JT wiil be careful aunty, but I cannot stay indoors,” and putting on her water- proof and over-shoes, she went out. A boy passing at the time recognized her, and called out. “Be careful, Miss Ruth, or the wind will capsize you.” “Why Jack Rand, how came you to be out?” “T think for the same reason that you are. To see the vessel yonder come into the bay.” “ “ and “ mad T neal whe they was in | her thro suck T but sel ¢ time a sh wink ther soul She way the swif dro} to t and may I th 7 wail of 1 she ~ grol a f hou Sea kno just } to

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—— land. se or 1 now vould ith a nine, n her r out id in | was essel her , she even ‘it is otice and. erce d at that om- r. ome pite out uld 0m ery the lay > Ae the ‘ful get elf not er- A er, nd be ou ito IN WIND AND STORM. 281 “What vessel do vou think it is?” “T don’t know, only it is a large one, and a three-master.” “Why do you think so?” “From her length—I saw the flash she made in the water.” They had hurried on, and were now near the beach. As they reached a place where they were sheltered from the wind, they stopped, and watched the vessel. She was just out from the point, and coming in fast, throwing the spray away from her bow in great masses, and driving through the waves with a speed that only such a gale could give. They had been in their sheltered nook but a moment, when the lights of the ves- sel dashed behind the point, and in a little time came in sight within the bay. Then a sharp tack brought the vessel by the wind, and out of the rush of the sea, and there was a sudden uproar on her that sounded above the noise of the storm. She kept on up the harbor, and soon her way slackened, and ~her anchor was let go, the chain running out with a decreasing swiftness. Then another anchor was dropped, and the great ship swung head to the wind; and soon the chain was still, and she was safe. “Run down to the beach, Jack, and maybe you can find out the vessel’s name. I thought I heard a boat lowered.” The boy ran down the street, and Ruth waited in the darkness, a strange feeling of terror growing in her heart, though she could not tell why this should be. She heard the splash of oars and the grounding of a boat on the beach, and in a few minutes—minutes which seemed hours to her—Jack came running back. “Oh, Miss Ruth,” he gasped, “ it is the Sea King, and Captain Warden was knocked overboard by the spanker-boom just as she rounded the rocks!” Ruth pressed her hands on her heart to stop its swift beating, and then in a strangely calm voice asked: “Do they think he is lost?” “The mate seems to think so, but he is going down the harbor in his boat, to see whether he can find him.” Was it an echo? or did a voice come sounding in on the wind: “Ruth! Ruth!” So it sounded, and the girl shuddered; and then a wild hope came, and grasping her companion’s hand she said: “Come with me, Jack,” and sprang for- ward to the path leading out on the point. The boy followed, but though young and strong, could hardly keep up with Ruth, who, when the gusts came, would bend low to their fury, and then press on with renewed energy. The path was rugged, and the wind and rain came beating in with increasing fury, but the two young forms went strug- gling on, hearing the wild sough of the storm, and the thunder of the waves as they dashed con the rocks. More than once Ruth had thought she heard her name, but she did not stop to listen. If she could only find the form of her sweetheart! If she only could do this! This was her thought, and soon the rocks were reached, and she peered out over the tossing waves that came rushing round the point, to foam and fret along the bay. “Ruth! Ruth!” It was no dream now, but a voice that sounded up from the eddies wirling among the rocks. “Oh! Jack! Jack! he is here,” she cried, clambering down the steep and rag- ged mass: and the boy followed. “Ralph!” she called, as she felt the water wash about her feet, “Ralph!” A red glare was flung out by the light on the point, and as it ran along the waves, the reflection was thrown in among the rocks. It ran over a rough and foam- wet jag just beyond her, and there she saw, clinging weakly to a jutting knob, a form that swayed to and fro with the wash ot the waves. A gleam lit the face as she heard, fainter than before, the plaintive sound, “ Ruth,” that had led her from the village to this storm-beaten place. “T am here, Ralph.” she cried, and ina moment more was by his side, and work- ing with a great strength to get the limp form up the rocks, and beyond the wash of the sea. Her boy-friend was with her, and be- tween them they half carried, half dragged the man up to the crest of the ledge, and here they laid him in the shelter of a boulder, and then Ruth said: “ Run to the village, Jack, and get some men to carry Ralph home.” And Jack was away before the words were finished. Then taking the man’s head in her lap, Ruth bent down to him and asked:

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282 COURTESY. “Are you much hurt, Ralph?” He had not spoken while they were getting him up the rocks, for there was no time for words, and she did not know whether he was sensible or not; but her voice seemed to thrill and warm him, and he answered : “I think my left arm is broken, Ruth dear, for I could not use it in the water.” “T hope there is nothing else to fear.” “There is not, for I have no pain else- where. And how came you to find me? I was growing very weak, and could not have held on much longer.” “T heard you call.” The sound of hurrying steps came along the rocky path, and the glare of a lantern broke through the gloom. “Here they are,” cried Jack Rand, who was in advance; and the next minute a dozen of the sailors and fishermen of Stormeliff were standing about them, proffering assistance. “Carry him to my aunt’s,” said Ruth, and through the wind and rain they bore him toward the town. “A boat’s light came dancing down the bay, seeming a weird will-o’-the-wisp; and as she drew near, one of the men hailed her and told of the finding of the captain, tor it was the Sea King’s cutter. Then the party hurried on, and in a little time the wind held undisturbed possession of the streets of Stormeliff, though where the fires snapped- and crackled, the story of Ruth’s adventure was told, and more than one wise match- maker declared that the wind had been | full of the sound of wedding bells. And | there were wedding bells sounding in Stormcliff that autumn; for as soon as he was able to be about, Captain Warden | wished to go down to his ship, then un- | leading in Boston, and he “could not go | without his wife,” he said; and so Ruth | had not waited to allow an elaborate cere- mony, but had been married in a plain dress in the church where her mother had once stood a bride, and Stormceliff had rejoiced in the wedding. The sudden appearance of the Sea King | the night of the storm, was made plain by | Ralph in a few words. The storm had caught him as he was trying to run in for | Boston, and finding that he could not make that port, and Stormceliff being in the line of the gale, he made for home, knowing that once inside of the harbor he would be safe. i He had battled bravely when the boom threw him overboard, but his strength | was nearly gone when he reached the rocks, and it was all he could do to cling to them. And Ruth had clasped his hand while he told of this, and bent and kissed him when the story was finished, saying: “You were mine, darling, and God is too good to bring darkness and sqrrow to love like ours.” THos. 5. COLLIER. ——— COURTESY. CHARACTERS. Joun SoLoman, a wealthy old cripple. Mr. Sprout, father of Jim. Jim Sprout, a lad of fifteen. GopFREY BLAND, lawyer (middle aged). SoLoMAN SWELL, nephew of John Soloman. JouHN Beg, merchant. Miss MuLL, fashionable young lady. Mary Forts, a flower girl. Mr. Swirt. Boy (colored). Scene I.—Jn the street. John Soloman (old gentleman poorly clad, leaning on two crutches, in the street, apparently very weary). I really think the world at large is less uncourteous than we who live indoors are led to believe. At any rate, if I can endure the fatigue of standing, I will note the passers-by for a few minutes. (A stir without.) Ah, there is some one coming now! (Enter Jim Sprout, an uncouth, uneul- tiated youth.) Mr. Soloman. Good morning, sir; this is the opening of a fine day. Jim Sprout. Yes, siree! I s’pose dad ’ll fine me for goin’ fishin’. I say, mister, what kinder wood is them thar sticks made of? (Indicating with his foot the crutches.) They'd make first-rate fish poles if they were ’bout six times as long. Mr. Soloman. Do you like to fish, my son? Jim Sprout. I haint no son o’yourn! My dad aint quarter so old; he’s spry on his feet, too, and I must shake along, or he’ll overtook me. (4 latest gwen M Goor S. ing. with weal stop] dé. Mist Une swal swel fowl (i disg Exit mace ( busi J J func A mor J cou didi hea war mol doll go ( he 1 an ome _¢ ing ad J De: dev Ple J im} liv) d all ab ati anc tha hor ug!

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enture match- 1 been And ng in 0N as ‘arden un- hot go Ruth 2 cere- plain sr had TY had King in by 1 had in for 1 not 1g in Lome, arbor boom ngth - the cling | his ; and shed, rd is w to R. Ah, rcul- this dad ster, icks th é oles my mn on , or COURTESY. 285 (Enter Soloman Swell, dressed in the latest mode, moving with an important air, swinging @ cane.) Mr. Soloman (in a disguised voice). Good morning, friend. S. Swell (condescendingly). Good morn- ing. I beg you will not interrupt me with demands for charity. My time and wealth are not to be squandered on street- stoppers. (Passes slowly and pompously on.) J. Sprout (to Mr. Soloman). Whew! Mister, he ’minds me for all the world of Uncle Teek’s old turkey gobbler. I swan, that old gobbler of his’n is so busy swellin’ he don’t see the corn till the other fowls eat it all up clean as a whistle. (S. Swell casts a side glance of supreme disgust at the boy, and pursues his way. Exit, and exit boy behind him, making gri- maces. ) (Enter John Bee, absent-minded man of business, with a day-book under his arm.) Mr. Soloman. Good day, sir! Mr. Bee. Ah! Good day. Short of funds ; can’t pay any bills to day, sir! Mr. Soloman. I am not collecting money, sir, only the courtesy of friends. Mr. Bee. Ah! Yes! Money and courtesy are tight. The Navy National didn’t discount any paper yesterday. Two heavy notes due to-day. Banks tight and wary. Men up to-day will be down to- morrow just for the lack of a few paltry dollars—but pardon me, I must away, good friend. ( Exit.) (Enter Mr. Swift, who rushes as though he was after a starting train, and only gives an audible grunt in return for Mr. Sol- oman’s pleasant good morning.) (Enter Mary Floris, a slight girl, bear- ing a basket of wild flowers, and Miss Mull, a dignified young lady of fashion.) Mary (offering her flowers to Miss Mull). Dear lady, buy a bouquet? See, the fresh dew of the country is still upon them. Please buy one; only five cents, lady! Miss Mull (sharply). Child, do not impede my passage! I am perfectly ob- livious to your insignificant blossoms. Mary. Kind lady, here is arbutus, too, all laden with the fragrant dew (offering a bunch ofthe bloom). Miss Mull. Have you no paternal rel- ative, girl, to superintend your education, and give you some better employment than vending these vulgar weeds? I ab- hor the noxious emanations of the earth ; ugh! take them away! Mary (bursting into tears). I wish I had a father! Nobody buys my ftowers! Nobody loves me, but poor blind grand- mother! Oh I—I want to sell them so much that I may buy bread for her break fast ! Miss Mull. Degraded offspring of pov- erty! If you desire charity, why don’t you say so? There’s a penny for you (tossing a penny into her basket). Now, never annoy me again with your chatter! Mary. Bless you! Thank you, lady (dries her tears, and arranges her flowers). Miss Mull (straightens her gay plumage, soliloquizing). There! I shouldn’t won- der if I had missed Mr. Swell by this meddlesome encounter! Think I'll go down Broad, and possibly see him as he comes up Chestnut. Oh, ho! I wonder if he will inherit the fortune of his Me- thusalistic uncle ; or whether the disagree- able creature will live forever. (Sighs, and goes out. Exit.) (Mary who has risen above her grief, ap- proaches Mr. Soloman with her flowers.) Mr. Soloman. Good morning, my dear! What have we here? Spring flowers? (Mary hands him a bunch of arbutus.) Mr. Soloman. How sweet they are! They take me back to my boyhood again. Did you pluck them this morning, little one? Mary. Yes, sir; and Iam sotired. I started out at four o’clock. It’s along ways into the country. Why now it must be ten o’clock, and I haven’t sold one bunch. Mr. Soloman. Never mind pet, I will buy them. I will takethemall. Here is a dollar for you (handing her a note). Mary (not touching it). No, no, sir; they are not worth near so much. See, there are only nine bunches, at five cents a bunch. They will be 45 cents. I have no change, no money in the world except this penny (taking it from the basket) the lady just gave me. Mr. Soloman. I want no change, child. Did you say you had a blind grand- mother? Mary. Yes, poor grandma, how hungry she must be (looking ready to ery again). We only live a square or two away. Mr. Soloman. Here, take this (the money) and run and get her some bread and butter at the grocer’s. Then come back to me: I want to speak to you again. Mary (accepting the note and kissing his hand.) Thank you a thousand times!

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284 COURTESY. (She runs away, leaving the old man and his flowers.) (Enter Mr. Sprout, looking as though he had lost some important document.) Mr. Soloman. Good-day, sir! Did you lose anything? Mr. Sprout. Yes, I lost the most good- for-nothing boy in existence; my son, Jim Sprout. Did you see a lad about fifteen on the street this morning, that looked as if he was running after idleness. Mr. Soloman. Yes, friend, I saw a boy a few minutes ago, who was going fishing. Mr. Sprout. Then why didn’t you stop him? Where’s the use of men living to be old if they can’t right the world? Mr. Soloman. Ah, yes; where’s the use? Does your son go to school ? Mr. Sprout. Toschool? You said he went fishing! Mr. Soloman. No, 1 do not know that it was your boy, but I do know boys must have employment. They might do worse than to fish. Mr. Sprout. Be sure they might, old fellow! But it’s dreadful irritating, when a man has but one son, that he can’t keep him under his thumb. Good morning. ( Hastily departing.) , Mr. Soloman (soliloquizing). I suppose he’s right: boys are very much like a will 0’ the wisp, not stationary enough to catch. (Enter Godfrey Bland, walking lei- surely and looking searchingly at Mr. Solo- man.) Good morning, Mr. Soloman: good morning, my dear sir! Mr. Soleman (extending his hand). Good morning, Mr. Bland. Mr. Bland. Why are you standing here, Mr. Soloman? You look tired! Let me help you home! (Enter Mary Floris). Mr. Soloman. Yes, I have been on my limbs too long. I was going to have this little girl go tor my servant, but if you will assist me to my carriage I will be obliged. . Here, little miss, bring these flowers for me! (Mary gathers up the flowers, and Mr. Bland assists Mr. Soloman, who is a sad cripple, to move slowly away, talking ten- derly and courteously the while.) Mr. Soloman. Mr. Bland, I wish you to draw up an instrument of writing for me this afternoon. After I am rested, I must make my will. Mr. Bland. Most happy to come, sir; though I trust it will not be needed these twenty years. Mr. Soloman. Now we go. gotten very stiff standing here. Mr. Bland. No wonder! You are so unaccustomed to exposure. This disguise and all I confess puzzle me somewhat. Here is your coach! (Exit, followed by the flower-girl, as the curtain falls.) I have Scene II. Mr Sprout (seated reading a newspaper). (Enter) Jim Sprout. Hurra dad, I seen gome of the strappinest fish you ever laid eyes on! Regular whoppers! One fellow was nearly as long as my arm (indicating the length on his arm)—a catty. I wanted to bring him home for mamma’s supper, but the old thing horned me and got away. It hurt dreadful for a bit. Some blame big snappers in that pond: one grabbed holt my boot and bit the toe through (holding up his foot). Mr. Sprout. Pity it hadn’t bit your foot! Jim, you try me beyond endurance. I fear I shall have to put you in the House of Refuge. Jim Sprout. Any fish there, dad? Or any trees with crows’ nests in ’em? Jake Flim and Sam Sykes are hunting crows’ eggs to-day. Say, I'll go to school all week if you'll let me go with ’em next Saturday. Mr. Sprout. Hunting crows’ eggs! hunting a way to break their necks, I guess. Why Jim, crows build their nests on the top of high forest trees! Jim Sprout. The more fun to nab’em, dad! Who cares "bout pickin’ birds eggs off the ground or dead fish off the market stand? I heard mam tell you tother day boys must be boys an I b’lieve it. I must go an tell the dear old cove *bout them tremendous fish! (Exit whistling). Mr. Sprout. That boy has a good heart, but he is so headstrong and uses such a deal of slang. I have a mind to let him run. Rich John Soloman told me the other day that worse boys than Jim had made good men. (Puts the paper in his pocket, pushes his chair out of sight, and goes out.) (Enter Mr. Swell and Miss Mull, at op- posite doors, looking supremely indifferent until they meet.) Mr. Swell. ‘Good morning, Miss Mull!

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Se me, sir; d these [ have are so Isguise ewhat. wed by paper ), I seen or laid fellow cating yanted er, but away. blame abbed rough your ‘ance, 1 the ? Or Jake rows’ | all next ges | cs, I nests "em, rds the you ieve ove ). art, ha him the had his und op- ent 10a COURTESY. 285 Miss Mull. Mr. Swell. Good morning, sir! A most superb spring morn- ing. “ilise Mull. Superb. Mr. Swell (turns about and walks with Miss Mull). By your leave, Edna. Miss Mull (blushing and bowing). I have but little shopping to do to-day. It is exceedingly fatiguing (with a weary air). Mr. Swell (gallantly offering his arm). Accept my sympathy. Miss Mull (accepting the honor). How is your uncle, Mr. Soloman? Mr. Swell. Worse, I think. I saw Mr. Bland and Dr. Morris enter the house as I passed a few minutes ago. (Having been moving during the collo- quy, they pass from view.) ( Exit.) (Enter Mr. Bee with day-book and ledger. He draws out a small table and chair, which have been obscured from view by the curtain.) It is utterly impossible to straighten these accounts in the whir of the counting-house. (He opens the books and goes to work, sorely puzzling his brain and face over the figure lines. After a few moments of copying with a pencil dates and numbers from different pages of the books, he speaks out:) It’s no use! There’s no alternative but to give up. It’s terrible to go under for the lack of five hundred dollars, but I’ve tried haif the bankers and brokers in town. (Knock without.) There’s somebody with another bill! Come in! (Enter black boy with a note.) Massa Soloman send you dis note, Massa Bee. He sed gib to nobody but Massa Bee: is you him? Mr. Bee. Yes, that is my name. Boy. Den you mus’ hab it (handing Mr. Bee a sealed note). Mr. Bee. Thank you, boy! an answer? Boy. Nosar, Massa said it ‘quired none. (Exit boy, bowing.) Mr. Bee. From Mr.Soloman! What business can he have with me? (Tears the envelope open, takes out a note and a check for $1,000. Reads the note.) “John Bee. Dear Friend: John Soloman sends you this loan of $1,000 for an indefinite period, without interest. With his blessing in your emergency.” John Soloman is under no obligations tome. It must be a mistake. What a God-send it would be! Even the idea makes my load lighter. I must off to Mr. Wait for Soloman’s, and see if it is all a mistake. (Seizes his hat and goes out.) (Scene Closes.) Scene III.—A week later. Soloman Swell, Miss Mull, John Bee and Mary Floris, seated in a sumptously fur- nished room. Enter Mr. Sprout and his son Jim. Mr. Swell (To Sprouts). Gentlemen, your audience will be dispensed with in this house of mourning. After the funeral, it is no place for the collection of the pop- ulace. Mr. and Jim Sprout turn to retire, and meet Mr. Bland. Mr. Bland. your audience. Mr. Swell (rises indignantly). What means this array of common people, Mr. Bland? I thought you asked Miss Mull and I to hear the reading of my uncie John Soloman’s will. Mr. Bland. Yes, my dear sir; I will break the seal of this important document (holding the sealed will in his hand) in a moment. Be seated, gentlemen. The audience here assembled are those your lamented uncle desired present at the reading. (Puts on his spectacles and care- fully breaks the seal. Mr. Swell (to Miss Mull). Uncle Solo- man had some eccentric ideas. Jim Sprout. 1 say, dad, I’m dreadful ’fraid them fellows ’Il start after the crows’ eggs afore I’m back. (Mr. Sprout shakes his head warningly at Jim). (Mr. Swell looks impatient and dis- gusted). Mr. Bland. Now attention, ladies and gentlemen. Mr. Swell, A-hem! Mr. Bland. You are here assembled at the request of the late John Soloman, to hear the reading of his last will and testament, written by me the afternoon be- fore his death (unfolding the document.) Mr. Bee and myself are witnesses to his hand and seal. (Reads.) “J, John Solomen of the city of in the state of Pennsylvania, being in sound mind, memory and understanding, do make and pub- lish this my last .will and testament, thereby re- voking and making void all former wills by me at any time made. “I dispose of such estate as it has pleased God to intrust me with as follows: “To Mary Floris, the good-hearted little girl of whom I bought wild flowers to-day, I be- Stay, gentlemen! I wish

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286 —— —__ COURTESY. queath the sum of $10,000, with the request that it remain as it now is, in the stock of the Navy National Bank, until her majority; my friend John Bee acting as her guardian, drawing the dividends and giving them to her quarterly without reservation, attending that she is properly educated and taught the value of time and money, also that her aged grandmother is made comfortable. In lieu of this service and my desire to help bim,I give to John Bee the $1000 sent him by cheque to-day, and at the end of his trust as guardian of Mary Floris, $1000 more, providing he perform his duties faithfully as herein directed.” 5 ~ (During the reading Mr. Swell utters in- dignant groans. Miss Mull looks haughty and grieved. Mary sheds grateful tears.) “T devise and bequeath to the uncourteous youth, James Sprout, such lands of mine beyond the city limits, in the township of Kent, as con- tain the oak grove, fish pond, etc., six acres more or less, with the proviso that he labor to keep it in order, regard his father’s wishes, and learn to address strangers politely.” Jim Sprout (taking advantage of Mr. Bland’s pause for breath). Why, dad, that’s the very place I saw them whopper ceat-fish! The old fellow can’t mean it! Mr. Swell. Mean it! Of course not! Uncle Soloman wasinsane. I will contest the will. The fact of having all this rabble here to hear it read proves his imbecility ! Mr. Bland. Silence, gentlemen! I am not through. (Reads.) “To my nephew and namesake, Soloman Swell, I bequeath $5,000. Mr. Swell. Zounds! $5,000 indeed! Mr. Blank (reading). “It would have been multiplied by fifty if he had been more industrious, and been more char- itable to those he imagines need friends on the street. Soloman must earn his money, asI did. (Miss Mull, enraged, leaves the room.) “To my three faithful servants, for their care over my years of inability, I bequeath $1,000 each. The remainder and residue of my estate I give the city, for the founding and maintenance of an institution for the dissemination of cour- tesy among all classes. It is furthermore my desire that Mary Floris and James Sprout be fitted for instruction therein, if it be at all in accordance with their tastes. I appoint Godfrey Bland and Mayor Gypsem controllers of the fund for this Courtesy Institute, with such effi- cient assistants as the city may elect, “Lastly, I appoint JacobgMills and Godfrey Bland the executors of this my last will and tes- tament. In witness whereof I this day set my hand and seal.” JOHN SOLOMAN. GoprreEy BLAND, Joun Bez. (He folds the document slowly.) Mr. Swell. Please allow me to look at Witnesses. the signatures (coming forward and reaeh- tng for it.) Mr. Bland. You can look, but it cannot pass out of my hands until it is registered, Mr. Swell ( grasps at it, tearing it slightly), You villains! to defraud a crazy old man into disowning his heir. Mr. Sprout (collars Mr. Swell quietly). Now, talk like a gentleman. I’m dread- ful sorry for you, but you musn’t get so riled. You can have the fish pond if Jim’s willing (loosing his hold). Jim Sprout. Yes, but I ain't willin’, Why them big trees over the fish pond is jist alive with crows’ nests! Mr. Bland. A will is a will, sir! and this one will stand. You can contest it according to law, but you will find it use- less. Your uncle’s life was shortened by what would seem needless fatigue on the street the day this was written. Your courtesy there he failed to admire. He disguised himself to view human nature from a different standpoint. Mr. Swell. Which shows how insane he was! I shall have the will contested immediately. ( Exit.) Mary Floris (coming deprecatingly to Mr. Bland.) Good sir, I have no right to atiy of the gentleman’s money. Mr. Bland. Yes you have, little girl. Mr. Bee, this is your ward, Miss Floris. Mr. Bee (taking her hand kindly). Do you think, Mr. Bland, there will be any difficulty about the execution of the will? Mr. Swell is terribly disappointed. Mr. Bland. Ditticulty? Oh, no! Sol- oman Swell has swelled all his life, and it will be a trial for him to stop now. His course has for years been unsatisfactory to his uncle. Poor fellow! loses his pros- pect with Miss Mull, I see, by the change. Jim Sprout. I sexy, dad, may I go now ?—them fellows won’t wait forever! Mr. Sprout. Yes, be off (exit Jim Sprout). I wonder if Jim will ever out- grow his restlessness. The cultivation ot that bit of land may prove his salvation. He will go to school all week for the sake of spending Saturday there. Mr. Bee. Yes, Mr. Sprout, it will be the making of your son. I hope, physically and morally, to keep him employed and out of the society of city roughs. Mr. Soloman has saved me from financial wreck. Mr. Bland. A good, honest, charitable man is the noblest work of God, gentle- men. (Curtain falls.) Emity Lrenwox. In ners, seas¢ that toile men the + wor: for still the reac by 1 chie arti the cole Wa eith mo! Kos bee arti vie for ter pri cul era Ja ha the an ch th St Ww th

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cannot ‘istered, ightly), ld man utetly), dread- get so yd if willin’, ond is "! and test it it use- ed by n the Your He lature nsane tested it.) ly to right girl. ris. Do > any will? Sol- nd it His ‘tory pros- nge. go or! Jim out- n of ion. sake | be ally and Mr. cial ible tle- ART IN WASHINGTON. In the midst of the whirl of fashionable din- ners, receptions and teas that mark the winter season of Washington, it is gratifying to know that however great the display of magnificent toilets, or how much the modiste’s skill finds mention in the “society” articles of its papers, the community is not entirely given over to the worship of such hollow, transitory pleasures, for “art. dear art” now and then makes its still small voice heard amid the noisy call to the table, the dance, and the dressmaker. Al- ready one entertaiument given to its lady friends by the members of the Kosmos Club, made up chiefly of persons of scientific, literary and artistic tastes, has blended with its pleasures the attractions of a display of oil and water- color pictures of excellent quality, the work of Washington artists. The merely vulgar rich, either indigenous or foreign, do not find their money or their politics able to open the door of Kosmos to them. This rare entertainment has been followed by a reception given by three artists, whose works decorated the rooms, and vied with the attractions of the dance. provided for the fair guests. May this happy plan of en- tertainment go on, and true refinement and pro- priety of manners will certainly result from the combination. Portraits in oil, three-quarter length, of Gen- eral R. E. Lee, and General T. J. (Stonewall) Jackson, painted by J. H. Elder, of Richmond, have been presented to, and are now hung in the Corcoran Gallery of Art. They are repre- | 2 sented in full Confederate uniform, and are thought to represent well the opposite styles of character of their faces and general bearing. Lee stands erect with folded arms, in his tent or office, and looking straight before him. The expression of his face is calm and mild, his com- plexion ruddy with health, presenting a figure of fine soldierly dignity. Jackson stands in the field. His face is almost in profile, and looks earnestly afar off, as though on the look-out. His right hand holds a field-glass. A military cap hangs over his brow, and the eyes have a grave, almost dull expression. His peculiar projecting lower jaw, heavily bearded, gives great resolution to the face. It is difficult to be- lieve that a laugh could ever break up the cast- iron rigidity of his set features, or kindle in his eye such a light as Lee’s is filled with. Lee has the air of a Cavalier, while Jackson has that of a Roundhead. An officer of rank in the Union army in speaking of Jackson, remarked that he knew him weil at West Point, and that when the latter went there he was a tall, awkward country boy, very deficient in elementary education, and that he had once been a constad/e in his native place. The general impression of him at first was, that he was not of much account, but an officer of the academy named Whiting discov- ered good stuff beneath his rough exterior, and took him in hand in his studies, which resulted in such rapid improvement that he passed bis final examination with distinction. MILLARD FILLMORE. The 13th President of the United States is another instance of a poor boy becoming the chief magistrate of the nation. He was born on the 7th of January, 1800, at Summer Hill, in the state of New York. Of English parents who were in rather straitened circumstances, all the education he received was the very imper- fect instruction furnished by the village school. At the age of 15, he was sent to the county of Livingston, there to learn the drapery trade, and soon afterward was bound apprentice to a wool-carder in his native village. During tour years he labored at this occupation, at the same time improving every opportunity at his disposal to cultivate his mind, devoting his evenings to reading and study. In his 19th year, he made the acquaintance of a lawyer named Wood, who discovering in him talents worthy of a loftier sphere, took an interest in him, and offered him a situation in his office, supplying him with funds for the prosecution of his studies for the legal profession. The atten- tion bestowed upon him by his benefactor was not thrown away. He entered with ardor upon the cvurse thus marked out for him; and in order that he might not be too great a burden upon his friend, devoted part of his time to con- ducting a school. He removed to Buffalo in 1821, in order to complete his studies, and in 1823 was admitted a member of the bar. career was thus opened up for him, and he delayed | A brilliant | not to pursue it. He gradually acquired both means and reputation. In 1829 he began his political career, being in that year chosen as a representative of the county of Erie in the legis- lature of New York, where he entered the ranks of the Whig party, at that time in opposition. Here his probity and modesty soon gained him universal esteem. He was mainly instrumental in procuring the abolition of imprisonment for debt in the state of New York. In 1832 he was elected a member of Congress, and such were the state manlike qualities displayed by him, that he was several times re-elected. In 1844 he resumed his profession as advocate. In 1847 however, he again returned to public life, being elected by a large majority to the post of Comptroller of New York; and in the following year he was made Vice-President of the United States. The unexpected death of Gen. Taylor in July, 1850, leaving the office of President vacant, he was raised to that high office, which he held till 1853. His presidency was marked by the passing of some very salutary | measures, notwithstanding that his party were in the minority. He promoted as far as he could the progress of exploration and discovery, at home and abroad. In 1856 he was again nomi- nated for the presidency, but was not returned, and from this time he remained in private life until his death, which occurred at his home m Buffalo in 1874. ( 287)

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SF ASHIONS. 3 (Our Cut Paper Patterns.) As some of our readers have desired instruc- tions about putting our patterns together, we think that possibly there may be others needing timilar information, and for the benefit of all, would state that the parts to be joined together are either notched to correspond, or have the same number of holes upon the sides of the pieces to be put together. Every part fits acur- ately, and the matter of joining is simplified by following the above directions. It is best to cut the pattern out first in old muslin, then join to- gether and try on before cutting the material to be used; all alterations needed to fit the person for whom it is intended can then be made be- fore the goods are cut into. The only thing necessary to secure the pattern desired, is to designate the pattern upon the coupon, and re- turn with address and a two-cent stamp to cover postage. Prices OF ExtTRA PATTERNS FURNISHED TO OuR SUBSCRIBERS. Children’s Patterns.—Dresses, 30 cts.; Coats, 35 cts.; Ulsters, 35 cts.; Basques, 25 cts.; Wrap- pers, 25 cts. Boys’ Patterns.—Jackets, 25 cts.; Pants, 25 cts.; Vests, 20 cts.; Coats, 30 cts. Ladies’ Fatterns—Ladies’ full dress, $1.00; Polonaise, 50 cts.; Basque, 35 cts.; Overskirt, 35 cts.; Cloak, 50 cts.; Wrapper 50 cts. DESCRIPTION OF COLORED PLATES. Fig. 1.—Dress for child of six years, made of pink cashmere, trimmed with plaid satin; blouse bodice with sash, cuffs, and collar of the satin. Fig. 2.—House dress for lady, made of blue - satin surah; the front of the skirt is kilted, the back has a band of maroon open work embossed velvet heading, a narrow plaiting. Polonaise with piaited front, trimmed with velvet to cor- respond with skirt. Fig. 3.—Evening dress of pink satin and pink satin brocaded with maroon velvet flowers. The front of the dress is made of Chantilly lace ruffles; the apron drapery is of plain satin, with flowers cut out of the brocaded goods and transferred upon one side; the bodice and train of the bro- caded satin. Bodice pointed, cut square in the neck, and trimmed with maroon velvet bows, large maroon velvet bow fastening up panier in back. The edge of the train is finished with a thick ruche of plain satin. Fig. 4.—Evening dress, made of black Otto- man silk and black lace. The front is made of Spanish lace ruffles, and a drapery above of lace; the train is trimmed with lace, with sash drapery above it. High bodice covered with lace, short sleeves. DESCRIPTION OF FASHIONS. Fig. 1—Walking suit, made of pigeon-gray woven broche and plain velveteen; the skirt is of the woven broché box plaited, the polonaise of the plain with drapery of the broché. Hat of felt, trimmed with velvet, steel buckle and feathers. Fig. 2.—Suit for boy of seven years, made ot black velveteer, vest, pants, and coat, silk belt. Felt hat with velvet band. Figs, 3 and 4.—Front and back view of lady’s cloak, made of heavy black silk, trimmed with a ribbon bow, and jabot of lace up the front. Bonnet of black straw trimmed with feathers and ribbon bows. Fig. 5.—Jabot of lace. Fig. 6.—Fichu made of crepe de chine, trim- med with Mechlin lace and ribbon bows. Fig. 7.—Collar and vest of Brussels point lace to wear over colored dress trimmed with velvet rosette and velvet bow. Fig. 8.—Bonnet of pigeon-gray silk trimmed with velvet, bird and feathers. Figs. 9 and 10.—Front and back view ot dress for child of six years, made of blue serge shirred all over with fine shirring. The skirt is trimmed with ruffles and embroidery, and a broad sash. The collar is shirred and edged with embroidery, and the cuffs are of the same. Figs. 11 and 12.—Front and back view of lady’s walking jacket made of cloth, with em- kroidery upon the front, pockets and cuffs. Fig. 13.—Lady’s house dress, made of brown summer camel’s hair. The skirt is box-plaited, the polonaise opens at the right side, is trimmed with buttons and velvet, the back draped, the front cut in two points. To make this dress nine yards of material is required at 50 cents per yard, one piece velvet $2, linings 75 cents, but- tons $1.50, sewing silk and bones 50 cents. .This pretty house dress, made up by one of our cut paper patterns, would cost $9.50. Fig. 14.—Walking suit of electric blue sum- mer cloth. The skirt is kilted, with an overdress cut open at the sides, trimmed with a band of velveteen. Tight coat trimmed with brandeburgs up the tront. Fig. 15.—Hat of brown straw, trimmed with surah and feathers. Fig. 16.—Bonnet of black straw, trimmed with velvet and feathers. Fig. 17.—Bonnet of blue silk, trimmed with the silk and a bird. Fig. 18.—Dinner dress made of cinnamon ( 288 ) brow are ( ing | part plait back Fi mer mad with lace fron up 1 cide and larg in tl note striy red wit narr sma The quai they need

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with -gray kirt is onaise Hat e and ude ot ; belt. lady’s with front. athers trim- t lace velvet mmed dress lirred nmed sash. idery, w of em- rown aited, nmed l, the ) nine 8 per but- This > cut sum- dress d of urgs with with with mon FASHIONS. 289 brown silk ; the lower part of the skirt and bodice are of brocaded velvet, the edge of the skirt be- ing trimmed with a chenille fringe. The upper part of the skirt is trimmed with two deep box- plaited ruffles. Bodice with deep basque in the back, pointed in front, collar of fringe. Fig. 19.—Visiting dress of myrtle-green satin merveilleux and embossed velvet. The skirt is made of the satin merveilleux, kilted in front with narrow plaitings upon the edge, a row of lace heading them, and a jabot of lace up the front. The bodice and drapery are of the vel- vet, trimmed with satin folds caught together by ribbon bows. Bonnet of lace and velvet, the color of dress, trimmed with feathers. Figs. 20 and 22.—Front and back view of cloak for girl of six years, made of plaid cloth blue and garnet; the skirt is plaited upon the long, tight-fitting bodice, and is trimmed with a broad band of velveteen, where it is joined. The cape and cuffs are also of velveteen. Bon- net made of silk, shirred, with soft crown. Fig. 21.—Cloak for girl of five years, made of light cloth, sacque front, kilted in the back, large cape cut up in the back. Hat of straw, trimmed with velvet and feathers. Figs. 23 and 25.—Front and back view of walking suit for girl of seven years, made of cinnamon-brown cashmere; the skirt is kilted, long coat tight-fitting in front, box plaited in back, trimmed with ribbon bow, and Irish point embroidery. Straw poke bonnet, trimmed with velvet and feathers. Fig. 24.—Suit for girl of four years, made of striped cloth; the skirt is covered with side- plaited ruffles, tight-fitting coat, with large bow of satin ribbon in the back, and buttons. Straw hat, trimmed with velvet and feathers, FASHION NOTES AT HOME AND ABROAD. Although the March winds promise but little in the way of spring warmth and comfort, yet the store windows are bright with the first im- portations of spring novelties. Cotton goods are first shown, as many persons like to make up their dresses before the styles are fully de- cided for handsomer fabrics. Sateens, percales, and batistes are the materials shown ; stripes of large sizes of two colors in contrast are shown in these washing goods, copying the designs hoted this winter in rich velvets and silks ; thus stripes two inches wide are alternately of India red with golden brown, of buff with blue, gray with red, white with black ; there are also many narrower stripes, from an inch down to merely pencilled lines. Blocks, checks, bars, large and small dots and balls, and plaids, are all shown. The newest patterns are tapestry figures of quaint designs in Oriental colors that look as if they were wrought in cross stitches by the needle. There are also what are called Dresden Vou. cvitt.—19 China patterns, with flowers in faded hues done on pale celadon, cream, or porcelain blue grounds; these are loose branching sprays that do not cover the background. The “ all-over” patterns have the preference above detached flowers on other percales, and some of these give Japanese designs of birds or of human fig- ures in outline. The favorite flower seems to be the Japanese chrysanthemum of mammoth size and of varied colors, strewn over dull red, green, dark blue, or pale buff grounds. The coleus leaves and other pretty-colored foliage are shaded from brown to pink or salmon alike on a bright or dark sur- face, and there are many new designs of fruits. of acorns, and also of holly branches, with their pointed leaves and red berries. The fine designs seen last year on India silk are copied in cotton goods, such as blocks or balls of cashmere colors on écru or dark red grounds, and there are palm-trees and pines, and the Watteau land- scapes of Dresden china on turquoise-blue cot- tons that are as lustrous as if they were the cost- liest satins. Chintz figures are shown, also stripes of small sizes with rosebuds strewn upon them. The checked percales and sateens reproduce the colors of Scotch ginghams, and also of the darker Madras checks that have much deep red and olive in them. Fabrics of a solid color are imported to combine with these figured goods, but the preference is for making these simple dresses entirely of one piece of goods. The trimmings will be white embroidery, and ruffles of the material of which the dress is made. The designs for making such dresses are unlined postition -basques, with a short round skirt trimmed with gathered ruffles, and bouffant drapery that may be either short or long, to suit the wearer’s figure, but must be simply ar- ranged in order that it may endure washing and ironing. Black silk is always a popular dress to be worn at this season of the year, when too early to decide upon colors; nothing is ever so economical as handsome black, in spite of its first cost, since it may be turned and returned, and made over again and again so long as it holds together, and Mrs. Grundy’s sharp eyes may fail to recognize it after each transforma- tion. On the other hand, a colored dress in any positive shade becomes marked after it has been worn one season, and, however carefully com- bined or converted into a new costume, ig sure to be recognized. We have so many handsome brands of black silks now, that it is an easy matter for a lady to make choice of a handsome dress at a reasonable price. Woven broché velvets and velveteens continue in demand for cloaks and wraps, and the strug- gle for pre-eminence between the different manu- facturers of velveteen will certainly insure the

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290 FASHIONS. ladies a variety to choose from. The manufac- turers of the “Arcadia ” brand make the impor- tant announcement that they have patented a process just discovered by them by which the finish of their goods is made to appear like any silk velvet manufactured. This will undoubtedly give genuine satisfaction to our lady readers, and cause the “Arcadia” brands to be the first asked for when making their purchases. Chenille is largely used for trimming. Feathers of all kinds are still used in profu- sion. Embroidered birds and fruits, are cut out and used to ornament dresses of thin material. A great novelty for evening dresses is net studded with flowers in relief, not embroidered. The chenille embroidery, forming fruit, is ex- ceedingly rich, and is appliqued on both bodices and skirts of satin dresses. The most simple mode of arranging the hair on the top of the head is to comb it up, and then wind it round and round in a coil. Wide-rimmed felt hats in fanciful shapes are reserved for carriage wear, a small ornament and feathers encircle them. Japanese sashes are very much worn by young ladies, with the full blouse plastrons now so fashionable. A very pretty and novel capote is in the shape of a basket made of cut jet beads; the rows of close brilliant beads interlaced like wil- low. The favorite color just now for young chil- dren is red, even for indoor dresses, red flannel or some wool fabric being used generally. Velvet continues in as great favor, and vel- veteen is adapted for full and partial costumes as well as trimming. NOTES, FROM OUR FOREIGN CORRES- PONDENTS. Each month, more beautiful fabrics and con- fections loom up before us for description when we take up our pen to chronicle fashions for you, the price of one single costume in many cases far exceeding what many persons spend for an entire year’s wardrobe. A very effective reception dress we saw was made of satin tissue, of the rich shade known as Havane, made with long train, and trimmed with lengthwise bands of ruby velvet, embroid- ered in Havane silk. The short, full bodice, pointed at the waist, is worn under a loose Greek jacket with short back and pointed front. Worth is making many evening dresses of tulle, and this frail yet becoming fabric is rapidly gain- ing favor. The most striking feature of the current fash- ions is the sudden jump from high corsages, so high that the crepe lisse frill inside the narrow collar touches the ears, in one style, and the Medicis collar frames the back of the head in another, to dresses so decolletée that a belle in Parisian society wore a dress a few evenings since which measured merely two inches from the belt to the top of the corsage. We suppose some of your American belles will soon be will- ing to follow the example set by their Parisian sister. Black evening toilettes are again in favor now that low bodices are once more in vogue. Black dresses made with low neck and short sleeves are found to be very becoming to both young and middle-aged wearers. Satin, velvet, or the soft repped silks, such as Victorienne or Benga- line, or perhaps the costly Antwerp silks with finer reps, are the materials used for these black dresses ; the trimmings are beaded net tabliers and lace flounces. The low-pointed bodice is round at the top, comes below the tips of the shoulders, and is simply trimmed around; the sleeves are like epaulettes of lace, and stand up wards slightly. Young ladies wear a demi trained skirt with this dress, while those who are older wear a long and full train of straight breadths that are puffed out sharply on the large tournure. Sometimes the pointed front of the bodice and the front breadths of satin skirts are entirely covered with jet drops that may be flowers of drooping shape, or may be only loops of beads strung together. Another variety is side panels, made of hanging loops of satin rib- bon, with a jet point sewed to each loop ; chenille is also used like jet for pendants. Another revival with black dresses is a yoke or shouldcr covering of transparent net to match the half-long transparent sleeves; this is the compromise adopted by conservative ladies who do not wear low bodices. Small figures of jet, steel, or of gold beads on black net are used for this purpose, and this forms an excellent plan for remodeling the basque or bodice of a black satin or velvet dress that is partly worn. The lace yoke may be round, pointed, or square be- low, and may be open at the throat in a low point, or else it may be finished with a full ruche of lace, quite high, around the neck. Occasionally white Valenciennes yoke and sleeves are seen in black dresses, and there are also white satin dresses made with the yoke and sleeves of black lace; but these are very con- spicuous, and are not as novel as the wide stripes of white satin with black repped silk now used for high Princesse dresses that may have either white or black lace guimpes and sleeves. Bright red satin is also used under black lace flounces, or under jetted net for black dresses, while others have red satin with woven designs | in jet or in fine garnet beads. This beaded red sat wl eu the ble be: wil Bl: wa cos wo of bo! jet bla the bro blu thr wit jet, anc wh the nill Ast ven are vel plai bea alsc wit soft wit visi the: cor pan or ¢ I vive Mar rea] sple 4 two K wit full dow con the sca the che sim The lars qui

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and the head in belle in evenings ies from suppose be will- Parisian vor now ». Black sleeves | young , or the Benga- ks with se black tabliers odice is s of the nd; the and up . demi se who straight ne large . of the ‘irts are nay be ly loops riety is tin rib- chenille a yoke ) match is the ies who s of jet, ised for it plan 1 black Tn are be- a low a full » neck. e and ere are ke and ry con- e wide ed silk at may es and ck lace iresees, designs jed red FASHIONS. 291 satin is used for the upper part of the bodice, while black satin is arranged upon it below in cuirass shape, with straps across the shoulders ; the three skirt breadths are made up of wide black ‘satin plaits, like panels, inlaid with the beaded red satin, and the bouffant back breadths with the hip drapery are of plain black satin. Black velvet dresses are made gay in the same way for young ladies for afternoon reception costumes, with short skirts, and with these is worn a small black velvet mantle with a sort of guimpe of the red satin, while the capote bonnet has a black velvet crown with pendant jet drops upon it, and a puffed red satin brim ; black ostrich tips and a high red aigrette are the trimmings. Ostrich feather borders of their natural gray- brown shades are used for trimming Titian red, blue, and gray velvet costumes, and are from three to seven inches wide. The chenille fringes, ‘with each sharply-pointed strand tipped with jet, are in favor for trimming handsome cloaks, and there are also tips of balls or acorns of satin which give a rich effect, and are not heavy, as they are meade over cork. New galloon of che- nille in many loops has the appearance of glossy Astrakan borders, and is woven closely to pre- vent drawing or falling out. The passementeries are in various combinations for trimming silks, velvets and cashmere dresses; for instance, the plainest gimps are of twisted cords without beads, then there are others with beads added, also the glossy satin cord gimps with beads or with chenille, or perhaps merely of the satin soft pliable cords, while others are of chenille with jet, or of jets with scarcely anything else visible. For rich black dresses of velvet or satin there are palm-leaf gimps of chenille with satin cords interwoven with jet; for trimming velvet panels there are detached flowers entirely of jet, or combined with chenille. It is predicted that poplins are going to be re- vived and extensively used for spring costumes. Many of the goods sold for Ottoman silks are in reality poplins with the heavy cord. They are splendid wearing goods and always popular. At a popular modistes in Berlin, we notice two pretty evening dresses. First, a skirt of pale yellow satin is covered With tulle of the same shade, this is gathered full half way round the petticoat, from the knee downward. At the bottom two full rose ruches confine it, and form a sort of full flounce round the edge. At the back there is, first, a deep scant flounce of tulle, then a deep puff, right in the midst of which lies a bunch of scarlet pink, cherry and white geraniums with foliage. A similar cluster is placed high at the left side. The usual bouffant effect is given by a third large plaited puff from the waist, but this is not quite as full as similar drapery has been this sea- son. A deeply draped apron covers the front and side breadths entirely, while large bunches of geraniums head the second ruche at the bot- tom. The low-necked waist is of satin, pointed and laced up. A plaiting of doubled tulle forms a short sleeve, and outlines the neck; under this is a fold which makes a sort of bertha, and the dress is completed with a cluster of flowers placed on the left shoulder, so far back that only a small spear of foliage is seen from the front. The second dress has a skirt of transparent gauze flounces over plain silk. There are three of these—deep, plaited and edged with a broad heavy lace, of the kind that is now so popular for fancy work—namely, coarse silk with tulle darned with filoselle. The back and front drapery, which is very bouffant, is of gauze flecked with tiny chenille butterflies. A garland of large roses starts from the hips, passes round the apron in a deep low round or half circle, and ends high at the back. The waist bas a short tulle sleeve. A piece of the chenille flecked material passes across the front, and is gathered at the waist line under a single rose and buds; below this it is trimmed with lace, and falls with a sort of jabot upon the shallow point. Aprons form an important part of the house toilette. One is of brown Java canvas (very fine) and is emibroidered down the front and across the bottom with silk cord, in a Gobelin tapestry pattern. A deep fall of Russian lace finishes the edge, and instead of a band there is a casing at the top, through which a narrow ribbon is run, which in turn is tied in a long bow, and ends at the leftside. Another is of dark blue wool sateen, embroidered in double. cross stitch. There are seven rows of dark red wild roses, with tiny wood brown leaves. ‘The material used is a very soft yarn; six rows of shirring fit the waist band of narrow ribbon, and two broad bows of blue and red are placed on either side of this. The effect is charming. There is only one novelty in hats. A sort of stiff soldier cap is covered with gray velvet. The material is first laid plain, and then all the fullness is drawn to one side, where it forms three large pointed pieces, lying in a sort of cluster. Twostiff gray-goose feathers are placed among them. A very tiny band of fur, or curled feathers, is the only relief to the general severity of the style. We close with a new arrangement of a bridal veil over the myrtle wreath always worn by a German bride. The flowers and leaves are massed into a thick coronet laid upon the curls falling over the forehead, and the veil, gathered into a huge rosette, is laid on top of this, so as to form a sort of cap, whence, leaving the face uncovered, it descends in full folds, enveloping the entire figure. FasHIoN.

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>t WORK DEPARTMENT.#< A and C. Tipy. The tidy is made of pale blue or old gold _ Satin, with a spray embroidered upon it as shown in full working size in C. The embroidery is done with arrasene and embroidery silk, the buds in pink, forget-me-nots in blue, leaves in green, and stems brown. The tidy can have a border embroidered around it, or be edged with lace. Any color satin can be used for it that fancy may dictate. B. PENWIPER. The penwiper is in the form of a hand-bell; it is composed of a piece of gold-colored cloth, pinked at the edge and embroidered with a star in long-stitches with silk. The inside is filled with rolls of black cashmere to wipe the pen upon. A gilt or ivory ornamental bell-handle is sewn to the top, or a loop of cord may supply its place. D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O. Doruigs. These doilies are of congress canvas, em- broidered in cross and Italian stitch with silks of various colors; the canvas is cut an inch and a half larger each way than is needed for the doily, and the edges are fringed out to the depth of an inch and a half. The doilies shown in M and O, are worked with squares of cross-stitch, which nearly cover the canvas; in illustrations F, G, H, I, we give pretty designs suitable for this purpose; the fringe is headed by a very narrow border in cross-stitch. Illustration N is worked with a stripe of cross-stitch in the centre, and one of long-stitches at each side; a design suitable for the cross-stitch stripe is shown in K; the border is shown in the long-stitch pat- tern in D. [Illustration L has a border with corners worked at the edge and small designs dotted about the centre. We have frequently shown designs suitable to be used for this doily; they may be worked at regular distances over the canvas, or only at the edge to form a border. ¥. This bag is intended to hold Berlin wool, crewels, arrasene, etc. It is made of crash, and is embroidered with crewels. It is cut in two pieces, measuring fifteen inches long and eleven inches wide, which are joined together. Eyelet holes are worked round each piece, and woollen cord laced through, and finished with tassels. The top is button-holed, and is drawn together with cord and tassels. The pocket on the out- side is intended to hold silk. It measures seven inches long and four inches wide. It is herring-

boned round, and is sewn to the bag. It is drawn up at the top with cord and tassels. Q. Foot-WARMER. The cover of the foot-warmer is dark ruby velvet, cut half a yard in breadth and one yard. in length. The centre of the design is worked upon the canvas with Berlin wool, the canvas is next tacked upon the velvet, and cut out to the exact shape; the design is then finished by work- ing over the canvas through the velvet. Three- quarters of the centre pattern is worked in each corner, and the centre of the square on each side of the initial letter on the flap. The end upon which the cross-stitch pattern is worked must be turned up to form a pocket sixteen inches in depth; the sides are sloped a little, so as to make the pocket rather narrower at the bottom than the top. It is well padded with wadding, and lined with fur; the sides are finished with rich silk cord, and the flap with fur; the handle is also of cord. The flap is for the purpose of - keeping the inside clean when not in use, which is very necessary for evening dress shoes and stockings. R. Basy’s Bonnet. CROCHET. Materiats required: Blue Andalusian wool, a tri- cot hook No. 12, and three yards of ribbon two inches wide. Commence in the centre of the crown with four stitches, join round; work twelve double under the chain over a fine cotton cord; this will give firmness to the work, and dispense with the necessity for a stiff shape; increase gradually in every round by working two stitches in every fourth stitch, until the crown is the size required. In the next row pass over every fifth stitch, doubles into the rest. Work one inch without increase or decrease. Now work in rows back- wards and forwards, leaving a third of the band unworked for the opening for the neck. For the brim, work on one-third of the centre- stitches in front of the band; at the end of each row work on three more stitches of the last row of the head. and increase three times in each al- ternate row to raise the front of the bonnet; this increase must be made about six times. Con- tinue until you have worked up the last stitches of the band. The curtain is best soft, therefore should not be worked over the cord. Work quite across the back of bonnet, commencing at the brim on one side, and finishing at the brim on the .other side. Sew a wire to the edge of the brim; line with satin, leaving it full at the edge to form @ (292)

littl the witl the side strir ber witl nam Gre line etch bag and men the shee oack desi and then off ¢ can of ¢ hem bow: in Vv brov with cut : ches the | cut : inch half alon on € outli with * whic or tk two and

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ine ‘which to draw your design. WORK DEPARTMENT. 293 little puffing ; run a cord through the back above the curtain, tie in a bow, and finish the ends with balls. The ribbon is arranged in bows at the top, and is twisted and brought down each side, where it is sewn, and ends are left to form strings. s, Sponce Bae. The bag is of écru linen gauze, lined with rub- ber cloth, and drawn up with écru cords, finished with tassels of linen thread. Similar tassels or- nament the corners. In front a design, & la Kate Greenaway, is embroidered in crewels, or in out- line stitch, as preferred. The same might be etched in marking ink, but the material of the bag should be jean, in that case. pS Patcuwork Rue. This rug is made of pieces of flannel, cloth, and velveteen of various colors. The arrange- ment of the different pieces is clearly shown in the illustration ; it is bound with a piece of black sheep or dog skin, and is lined with baize. DesIGN FoR SPLASHER IN ETCHING. (See Colored Design in Front of Book.) The splasher should be made the size of the sack of washstand, of coarse white linen, the design given traced off on white tissue paper, and tacked on in the centre of the linen; it is then worked through the paper, it being torn off after the etching is completed. The design can be worked in cardinal silk, or in a variety ot colors as fancy may dictate. The splasher is hemmed around, edged with lace, and ribbon bows at the four corners. UmsBre_ita Houper. These are quite new this year, and are made in various styles. One we saw was made of brown linen, worked with crewels and bound with worsted braid. From brown linen drilling cut a piece one yard long, three and a half in- ches wide at one end, and sloping gradually to a width of five inches at the upper end. Cut the widest end into two deep scallops. Then cut a second piece twenty-six inches long, four inches wide at the lower end, and ten and a half at the widest. Double the short piece along its length, and draw or transfer a design on either side, which may be then worked in outline stitch either in crewel or etching silk. It is well, if you are not perfectly at home with your pencil, to cut out a paper pattern on A poppy with two or three leaves and buds on one side, and one or two stalks of oats on the other, will be pretty, and very easy todo. They should reach rather more than half way up the linen, but one pat- tern should be a little longer than the other. An appropriate motto is a great addition, and is very easy to draw, even for a novice. Write the letters in a round hand, making each small let- ter a little less than half an inch high, and about the same width. Make the upright strokes double, leaving a little less than an eighth of an inch between the two strokes. Draw the capi- tais in proportion. “Fast bind, fast find,” “Laid by for a rainy day,” “Sunshine cometh after rain,” are pretty mottoes. Having worked your design and pressed it, baste the two pieces together through the middle, putting the nar- rowest ends together. Stitch a piece of narruw worsted braid, or a piece of the ordinary width doubled, over the basting. You will need to leave a very little'bit at the upper end unsewed until you have bound the upper edge of the shortest piece. Now baste the two pieces to- gether round the outside edges, and bind the whole case with braid. Work a buttonhole in each scallop of the back, or make loops of braid to hang the holder up by. These holders are sometimes made of very handsome materials, and are decorated with painting. Serviceable ones are also made of enamelled cloth with painted designs. One width of linen will make three holders. A new and striking design for a square cover for a table is to make the centre of plain satin, then put on a deep border of the crazy patch- work, and finish with a rich fringe. The patch- work should not have many plain pieces in it; those of embossed or figured velvet and brocade are much more effective, though the plain pieces may be ornamented with embroidery, which adds greatly to the beauty of the whole. This crazy, or, more properly, Japanese patch- work, so called because the design was origin- ally copied from a bit of pavement in a Japanese picture, is among the crazes of the day. The smallest pieces of silk or satin are available for it, and the more irregular they are the better the effect. The original mode of doing the work was with the pieces overlaping and the raw edges covered with button-hole stitch ; but this involves so much labor that the plan of sewing the bits on the wrong side and turning them over, as is done in the old-fashioned log-cabin quilt, is now generally adopted instead. A somewhat novel way to trim a table-scarf is to put three-cornered pieces of silk or satin on each end. Have these pieces half a yard deep at the longest side, in the corner embroider a spray of flowers ; where the satin or silk end joins the centre part of the scarf put a row of fancy stitches. A dark crimson felt scarf, with one end light blue, the other of crimson, shaded to brown, is very handsome.

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HOUSEHOLD FURNISHING DEPARTMENT. CITY AND COUNTRY INTERIORS. THE A reception-room is a very convenient appen- dage to a city house, and one that may be put to various uses. In an English basement house, with the parlor up stairs, the front room on the entrance floor is always appropriated for this purpose, when there is any reception-room at all; but where there is a doctor in the family, he in- variably seizes this lower apartment for an office. A certain wide house that we know of has a sort of inner vestibule, the outer one being shal- low and tiled, with nothing on either side but some growing plants; and this second vestibule has a soft, richly-colored rug in the centre, on CEPTION-ROOM. which stands a table with flowers and magazines; | on two sides of the wall are straight divans, co- vered with Indian-red morocco, @ mirror over one, and a fine oil painting over the other; the atmosphere softly tempered by steam heat, and a thick portiére of Oriental bues hanging before the entrance to the hall proper. It is a cosy place to wait in, or even to sit in without waiting; and it has become quite a pop- ular quarter of the house. OUR ILLUSTRATION, This month, represents a reception-room on a grand scale, and quite in keeping with the hall and staircase already described. The general effect of subdued gold, browns, and grays of walls and ceiling are carried out here in different material and patterns; and the small set figure of fleur-de- lis in the wall paperis made more effective by the dots between. The heavy mouldings, and the fes- toons in the frieze above, with the finely-frescoed centre piece, from which depends the handsome chandelier, also harmonize with the entrance portion; while the coloring of furniture covering and draperies blend harmoniously, The mirror-frame, mantel, and grate are par- ticularly handsome; and the ebonized frame of the glass, with a gilt beading near the inner edge, while the same material, as the window drapery, richly fringed, is continued over the mantel, The picture frames, too, have an outer and inner moulding to the gilt scroll-work of ebony, which adds greatly to their beauty. The handsome mantel clock matches the metal por- tion of the frames, or rather, perhaps, the frames match the clock, and this clock is the single or- nament of the mantel, if we except the mirror. An absence of ornament merely by way of deco- ration, should be conspicuous in a room of this character; while a rich and expensive style of furniture is by no means out of keeping. THE FIREPLACE. This represents a ‘low-down grate,” one of the most cheerful of fires, from which, however, the flame is absent. The fender, of polished } brass, is of graceful shape and artistic pattern; and the tiled border is in harmony with the de- sigan. An open fire in the reception-room is like a key-note of welcome, and seems almost a ne cessity, where the trifles which give a homelike air to parlor and sitting-room are rather rigo- rously excluded. THE WINDOW. The bay window, with its deep recess, is broad and handsome, with panels at the sides and base, and above the latter is a window border of stained glass. The graceful drapery, half lambrequin and half curtain, is of the same color as the plush on mantel and frames, with bordering of olive, and cords, tassels, and rosettes of the same. A handsome sofa or divan occupies each side of the recess, and these, like the rest of the furniture, are covered in brown. An ebony stand, with plush top, supporting a single plant of the Drachxna family, occupies the centre of the window. THE FURNITURE. The carpet, which entirely covers the floor, giving a look of warmth and comfort, is of two- shades of rather pale peacock blue, in a set tite pattern, that increases the apparent size of the room, and makes an admirable back ground for | the furniture. The wood of the chairs, sofas, and | tables is ebonized, and the upholstery is tufted andstained. The noticeably low seats promise restandcomfort. The ebony easel in one corner, supporting @ bas-relief of Shakespeare, adds a softening grace to the somewhat stiff apartment. ON A SMALLER SCALE. The room described pertains to the class of city houses that rejoice ina frontage of thirty feet and over; but there are other dwellings, oc- cupied by people of means and taste, which can boast no such extent of space, and which are often quite as satisfactory as more pretentious ones. Such a house, only eighteen feet wide, has the entire front of the lower story; it is an English basement, tur ed into a reception-room ; and the pretty oak staircase, with its open railing and easy landings, goes up directly from it. The front door opens into the room as it would into a hall, and the first thing that strikes a visitor, in cool weather, is the bright illumination of the wood fire that is reflected in the polished brass of its surroundings, and catches and plays with every glittering object around. A large rug is the only covering of the inlaid floor, except that before the fireplace there is a smaller one of tiger skin; but through the entire room there is an air of elegance and comfort. A double mantel of carved and polished oak holds candlesticks and curios; an old censor of ham- mered brass is suspended in one corner, and an- cient swords of curious workmanship are crossed above it. Wall paper and furniture are of Indian red, picked out with gold; and this reception hall, or hall-like reception-room, is so attractive thit guests are quite disposed to neglect the parlor for its charms, ELLA RopMan CHURCH. ( 294 ) Wa see cou nit her hoc bri suc her cla ant enc the gre sui roc Me ant of | he: Va

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ttern; 1e de- 8 like a ne- 1elike rigo- broad base, ained >quin 3 the ering f the each f the bony lant re of loor, two- ; tile the | for and tted nise ner, is a ent, 3 of irty oc: can are ous the ‘ish the ind ‘he nto or, the Ass ith pa ire ids m- in- ed d, or at or HOUSEHOLD FURNISHING DEPARTMENT. As I walked through the warerooms of I. E. Walraven, 1105 Chestnut St., the very atmosphere seemed filled with hints and suggestions of ease, comfort, and luxury; here I behe!d antique fur- niture such as was in use by our grandparents; here buffets or sideboards that recalled child- hood days, when I gazed with wonder at the bright, shiny pewter platters that decorated just such a sideboard in the old-fashioned farm-house ; here were tables and chairs just like those I had clambered over in my boyish pranks, and ranged by the side of them were the modern patterns and styles of furniture so bright and pretty that each seemed to stand as types of the era which they represented; here, too, I found carpets in greatest variety of pattern, texture, and quality, suitable to correspond with almost any style of | room aud furniture, Brussels, T'apestry, Wilton, Moquet, Axminster, Kidderminster, Velvet pile, and Turkey, and such an array of lace curtains of the different varieties that would captivate the heart of any of our lady readers; here in pat- terns artistic and beautiful are to be found Span- ish, Saxony Brussels, Flemish Brussels, Mechlin, Valenciennes, Dutch, Lisle, Chantilly, silk and cotton blonde, Limerick, Buckinghamshire, as well as the more modern styles; indeed, it isa veritable curiosity shop of all that is required for house furnishing. Mr. Walraven having given his personal atten- tion to the selection of the choicest and finest of the stock, even extending his travels to Asia and the far East to secure some particularly unique specimens of embroideries, portiers, and objects of art in his anxiety to serve his patrons. His taste in house decorating being accredited by _ the most fastidious to be ‘‘just perfect,’? un- doubtedly accounts for the continued prosperity of this house. MANTELS, GRATES, AND FIRE-PLACE FIXTURES, I next called on Messrs. W. H. Harrison & Bro., 1435 Chestnut Street. Here, again, I found the past and present represented; Jarge old- fashioned andirons, with a capacity for huge logs, that were suggestive of bleak winter nights, long ago, when interesting tales were told, while the sizzling of baking apples formed a pleasant accompaniment. A little further on might be seen a modern grate, 80 attractive in its appear- ance, with bright feuders and implements, as to recall Ik Marvel’s ‘* Reveries of a Bachelor,” and to agree to his passing thought that it would be nice to havea pretty little wife, if only to see her dainty feet grace the fire fender. And then, too, the fire implements, so bright and well-balanced, & continual temptation to poke and tinker with the fire. The tile facings and hearth, serving as & beautiful frame to a more beautiful picture, | 295 must not be overlooked. The most practical or sesthetic taste can easily supply their wants here, for be it brass, plain or burnished, iron, rough or polished, it can be furnished in styles moderate or elaborate, while those who desire ranges or heaters for houses or public buildings will find that this firm have given especial atten- tion to this department, and also to another very essential feature of household comfort, 7. ¢., ventilation. To all who may visit this firm, we may promise a warm reception, while all appli- cants by mail will receive a catalogue sontain- ing all needful information. GAS: FIXTURES. Be the home ever so humble it would not be homelike without light, and as every village aad hamlet nowadays of any importance has its gas- ometer, gas fixtures have become a considera- tion in all house furnishing. When I arrived at the establishment of Thackeray, Sons & Co., No. 718 Chestnut Street, I was soon impressed with the magnitude of this branch of industry. Here I beheld what is said to be the finest assort- ment of goods in this line to be found in this country. An hour spent in this establishment by an inquiring mind amounts to a moderate education in all that pertains to working in iron, brass, bronze, glass, porcelain, or china. In an upper room are dependent from the ceiling erys- tal chandeliers in sizes suitable for parlors or banquet halls all lighted, and in reference to these it was remarked, that whatever style came in or went out this one was always popular. The refraction from its pendants of the prismatic colors makes it always an object of interest, while its rich appearance seems from the first to have gained and held popular favor. My attention was next directed to the Cathedral Lanterns; these are not only works of art, but a high grade of art, and are’ worthy of special mention. In form they are either square, triangular, or egg- shaped, and suspended by chains or large hooks, the metal part of dull brass or oxidized iron decorated with delicate fretwork and five carv- ing or open work, genuine crystals and pre- cious stones ere set in like the small panes of glass in old cathedral windows, and the effect of the mellow, tinted light, as it radiates, seems to carry with it a subduing influence. Space wiil not permit me to give more in detail. Suffice it to say that the visit was a perfect revelation, and those who desire a fine assortment to select from may be assured that at no other place will they find a richer array of patterns from the Queen Anne to the modern renaissance than at this establishment, REPORTER,

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RECIPES. ImiTaTION PaTes DE Fork Gras (ngredients.—One calf’s liver, One calf’s tongue, Quarter of a teaspoonful Cayenne pepper, Half a nutmeg, A few cloves, Salt to taste, A teaspoonful of Worcestershire sauce, A teaspoonful of made mustard, Butter, One onion, Tablespoonful of water. Boil the liver until very tender in water, and in another vessel a calf’s tongue. It is best to do this the day before you make your patés, as they should be not only cold but firm when used. Cut the liver into small pieces, and rub these gradually to a smooth paste in a mortar, moist- ening as you go with oiled butter. Work into this paste when quite soft, the nutmeg grated, pepper, salt, mustard, cloves, Worcestershire sauce, and one tablespoonful of water in which the onion chopped has steeped until the flavor is extracted. Work all together thoroughly and pack in jelly jars, with air-tight covers. Pack the paté very hard, inserting here and there square and triangular bits of the tongue, which should be pared and cut up for the purpose. These simulate the truffles imbedded in the gen- uine patés from Strasbourg. When the jar is packed and as smooth as marble upon the sur- face, cover with melted butter. Let this harden, put on the lid, and set away in a cool place. In cool weather it will keep for weeks, and is very nice for luncheon or tea. The livers of several fowls, treated as above, substituting bits of the inside of the gizzard for truffles, make a still more satisfactory compound. OysTER CROQUETTES. Ingredients.—Oysters, Mashed potatoes, Lump of butter the size of an egg, Teaspoonful of salt, Half a teaspoonful of pepper, Quarter of a teacupful of cream, Egg, Bread crumbs, Lard, Scald and chop fine the hard part of oysters (after taking the soft part and liquid for soup), add an equal weight of mashed potato; to one pound of this add a lump of butter the size of an egg, salt, pepper, and cream. Make in rolls or small cakes, dip in egg and then in bread- crumbs, and fry in lard. Porators A La LyYonnalsp. Ingredients.—One onion, Butter, Five cold potatoes, Salt and pepper. Slice the onion finely; and fry it in butter until it begins to take color; add the potatoes, salt, and pepper to taste, and keep shaking the sauce- pan until they are cuite hot, and also begin to brown. Lemon SHAPE. Ingredients—Two ounces of arrowroot, Six ounces of loaf sugar, One lemon. One pint of boiling water, Three eggs. Mix the arrowroot, sugar, grated rind and juice of one lemon, with the boiling water. When cold, add the yolks and whites of the eggs well beaten, and boil all together well; then pour it into a mould, and let it stand until the next day. ~ This is a delicious sweet, and very nourishing for an invalid. Rippon JELLY. Ingredients.—One package of Coxe’s gelatine, One cup of cold water, Four cups of boiling water, Pinch of cinnamon, Two lemons, Two cups of sugar, One cup of milk, Half a glass of wine. Soak the gelatine in the cup of cold water three © hours. Add the cinnamon, rind and juice of lemons, a cup and a half of sugar, and the boil- ing water to two-thirds of it, stir well, and when dissolved strain through a flannel bag without pressing it. While it cools make blanc-mange of the reserved third of the soaked gelatine by heating a cup of milk, putting in half a cup of sugar, then the gelatine, and half a glass of wine; stir until melted, and strain intoa bowl. Weta mould with cold water, pour in a little of the plain jelly, and set on ice to harden quickly. Color half of the plain jelly with a little pulver- ized cochineal rubbed in a little water, and strained through fine muslin; a teaspoonful will color a cupful of jelly. When the yellow jelly is firm, put on with a spoon enough red to make a neat stripe, set back again, when this is har- dened pour in carefully some of the white blanc- mange. Use up your ingredients in this manner, finishing with rather a broad band of white at the top, which will be the base when it is turned out. (29+) Ingre Prep dred; and ¢ cut 1 into it wi light ougt even and earl fruit for t Whe the very bak: can Ing’ Firs pie veg pan deg and che is bro Ing Mi the | the ter

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ntil salt, ice- | to ‘ice en rell AY. for ee of il- RECIPES. 297 Connecticut Loar CAKE. Ingredients.—-Two pounds of raisins, stoned, Two pounds of currants, picked, washed and dried, Half a pound of citron, sliced, Three pounds of flour well sifted, Two pounds of butter, Two pounds of powdered sugar, One pint milk, Six eggs, Half pint fresh bakers’ yeast, Four nutmegs, grated, Half an ounce of powdered mace. Prepare all the materials the day before, and dredge all the fruit with flour, tossing it over and over until completely coated. Next morning cut the butter into dice, and: rub one-half of it into the flour, adding half the sugar also. Wet it with the milk, add half the eggs, beaten to a light cream, and the yeast; stir and mix thor- oughly and set to raise; it should be light by evening. Now add the rest of the butter, sugar and eggs, mix well, and set again to raise until early next morning; then add, gradually, the fruit and the spices, stir and mix well, and set it for the third time, to rise for two or three. hours. When light, butter a large, deep pan, pour in the batter, and set into the oven, which must be very hot at first, and allowed to cool so as to bake rather slowly, say three or four hours. It can be iced or not, as fancy may decide. Hauisut A La CREME. Ingredients —One pound of cold halibut, Two ounces of butter, One and a half ounces of flour, Half a pint of milk, One ounce of grated cheese, Salt, pepper, and nutmeg. First separate the flesh of the fish in small pieces from the bones and skin, and put into a vegetable-dish ; melt the butter in a small sauce- pan, and stir into it the flour; add the milk by degrees ; place on the fire until it boils, remove, and add the salt, pepper, and nutmeg; spread upon this the fish, and sprinkle with the grated cheese, or if preferred bread crumbs. The dish is then placed in the oven and baked until brown. CreaM WAFFLES. Ingredients.—Four cups of flour sifted, One teaspoonful of cream of tartar, One teaspoonful of soda, One teaspoonful of salt, Three eggs, Two cups of cream. Mix the soda, cream of tartar, and salt with the dry flour ; mix the beaten yolks of the eggs with the cream, and make a smooth batter. Add | the whites of the eggs beaten toa froth. But- ter the waffle-iron and fill three-quarters full. Bake a light brown. Corn Breap Loar. Ingredients.—Two cups of yellow meal, One cup of flour, Two teaspoonfuls cream of tartar, One teaspoonful of soda, One teaspoonful of salt, Two ounces of butter, Two cups of milk, Half a teacup of sugar, Two eggs. Mix salt, soda, and cream of tartar with flour and meal, cream the butter, and beat the eggs and sugar together, and add to the mixture, stirring in the milk lastly, and beating the butter well until smooth. Bake in buttered round iron cake-pans four inches deep. This loaf should be cut from the centre like a tart. The sugar can be omitted if preferred. Rick anp AppLe SourF.e. Ingredients.—Two tablespoonfuls of rice, Half a pint of milk, Two eggs, Sugar, Apples, Jelly or sweetmeats, Cream. Boil the rice in the milk until soft, sweeten to taste and add the yolks of the eggs ; make a wall with it around the sides of the dish. Stew some pared and cored apples until soft, fill the centre © of the dish with them, fill up the apertures in the apples with candied sweetmeats or jelly, and cover the whole with the whites of the eggs beaten to a stiff froth, and sprinkled thick with white powdered sugar. Brown in the oven, and serve with cream. Spanish CREAM. Ingredicnts.—Three eggs. Half a cup of powdered sugar, Half an ounce of isinglass, Three pints of milk, One glass of wine. Beat the yolks of the eggs with the sugar, beat* the isinglass in the milk; when it is dissolved, and the milk is at the boiling point, stir them slowly into the yolks; boil once more, and then stir in the frothed whites. Pour into moulds, and set away to cool. Gatrau Des Pommes. Ingyedients.—One and a-half pound loaf sugar, One pint of water, Two pounds of apples, Two small lemons, Custard. Boil the sugar in the water until jt hardens when peured into cold water, then add the apples, pared and cored, and the juice of the lemons; boil until quite stiff and put into a mould. When cold it should be turned out into a glass dish and a rich custard poured over it.

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HOME AND WOMAN’S INFLUENCE. Sunshine, snow, sleet, thaw, frost, and rain have followed each other in such quick succession during the last month, that had the thermome- ters, barometers, and weather-vanes been en dowed with intelligence they would certainly have brought intu requisition some electrical ap- paratus to register the rapid variations of tem- perature and wind as they occurred. These sudden changes have already shown tueir effect by the increase in the mortuary records, and many who merrily called forth *‘A happy New Year” have joined the innumerable throng; they have passed away singly from beds of sickness, and in tens and hundreds trom scenes of disaster of railroad and shipwreck. of changeable weather we have noticed from our windows the father, brother, and brave working girl closely muffled in their winter wraps, hur- rying homeward; and we have followed them in our imagination and endeavored to picture the welcome awaiting them, and the train of thought recalled past experiences of travel when from the decks of ocean and river steamers as well as from the windows of the dashing railway train, we have peered out into the darkness and caught the distant glimmer of window-encased lights that were the beacons of home roof-trees, and | | excess for filteen years. the old refrain would come mingling with our thoughts, ‘‘be itever so humble, there’s no place like home.” And as these lights varied in their grade of radiance from the candle-lit cabin to the blaze of gas-lights in the palatial residence, they have seemed to typify the lights of intelli- gence that would come forth from those house- holds to enlighten the world in future years; then came the reflection that the home influence | that is being daily exerted will be the main ar- | biter of the extent of what that light sball be. Our America, the home of the free, owes to-day the granduess of its institutions, its worldwide | greatness, mainly to the combined influences of mother and home; and eternity alone shall be | able to reveal how much of the true inward greatness of those who have been elevated to the highest positions within the gift of the nation is due to this combined influence, and also as to how many a poor struggling soul has been re- strained by it from wrongdoing, or keptin the path of rectitude; and it seems to us particu- larly pertinent that the Ladies’ Magazine should admonish its lady readers who are mothers, sis- OUR ARM CHAIR. | a slender hand or arm that was not capable of lifting a weight, yet holding as with an iron grasp the manly form equal to all physical endeavors. How often has the remembrance of a mother’s | kindly counsel recurred in after years as a reve- During this period | lation in the very time of need, and has served to nerve the soul with a renewed energy of wii to overcome or succeed in spite of adverse cir- cumstances: who to-day that reads these words does not recall such a circumstance, or a heart- treasured picture of some home scene that bas left its impress though scenes of grandeur or appalling disaster thut have occurred in the in- terval have long since faded from memory? In view of this, then, let it be your glorious mission to so endow home with all the embellishments known to feminine art that in the grand day of final accounts your efforts of love may outsbine in dazzling brilliancy all the sophistries of earth —in thst mankind have risen to prominence and honor upborne by the gentle, persevering, incal- | culable force of woman’s influence—and your pride and glory shall be to merit the imperish- able words ‘*She hath done what she could.” Horsrorp’s Acip PHOSPHATE IN INEBRIETY. —Dr. C. 8. Etlis, Wabash, Ind., says: “I pre- scribed it for aman who had used intoxicants to He thinks it of much benefit to him.” We must return our thanks to the many sub- scribers who in response to our offer have for- warded us a new subscriber, and to those who have not yet done so we desire to say that the offer to present a gilt-lettered binder for binding Godey’s as they are received, is still open. To every present subscriber who sends us one new subscriber at $2 we will send, post free, a binder The many complimentary words from the Press and readers about our February number is very flattering to us, and shall prove as incentives to renewed endeavor to satisfy our patrons, If there is found any cause of complaint we most earnestly desire you to inform ua, that we may rectify it. The delayed mails during this month, caused by the heavy snow storms, have caused us some annoyance; we have tried, however, to be prompt on our part, and trust that all have re- ceived their magazines and patterns in due time. Catarru Curep —A clergyman, after suffer- | ing a number of years from tht loathsome dis- ters, and daughters, and whose mission itis to | make home attractive, to renew their diligence in this direction, and to remember that there is not a God-given work so immensely grand in the magnitude of its far-reaching results as that which lies within the compass of their home cir- cle. How often we have known of the power of ( 298 ) ease, Catarrh, after trying every known remedy without success, at last found a prescription which completely cured and saved him from death. Any sufferer from this dreadful disease sending a’ self-addressed stamped envelope to Dr. J. A. Lawrence, 250 Schermerhorn Street, Brooklyn, New York, will receive the recipe free of charge. suc tot aw Dr. fan Cas rat ent to. ehc pre Sta car “ T His dre hin tio gre op] tor ant wil rat an req dif tity det nat rel Pit len

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le of yrusp vors. her’s reve- rved wi Cir- fords eart- . has ir or e in- In sion ents Ly of bine arth and ical- your rish- ETY. pre- 8 to uch sub- for- who ling To pew ess OUR ARM CHAIR. 299 HOW TO MAKE MONEY Intelligence and integrity are the first elements of success, but these alone will not push a young man to the front. To stimulate energy and application, a well-defined purpose is necessary. The success of Dr. Samuel Pitcher’s simple prescription, now so familiar throughout the world under the name of Castoria, was the result of a confidence in the prepa- ration to do what he claimed for it, and of a consci- entious purpose, backed by energy to make it known to mothers everywhere. During the epidemic of cholera infantum, which prevailed in the Eastern States in 1850, Sam’l Pitcher came into prominence as “The Children’s Doctor.” ; His success in treating chil- dren’s complaints, induced him to formulate a preserip- tion, Which was sentforfrom | great distances. Seeing his | opportunity, the keen Doc- tor put aside his saddle-bags, and compounding Castoria with great care, his business rapidly extended. Purity and excellence were his first requirements. Finding it difficult to obtain the quan- tity of material rendered necessary by the increased demand for Castoria, an agent was sent through parts of Asia and Africa, to select, gather, and teach the natives how to cure senna. Being opposed_to secret remedies, and the use of minerals and opiates, Dr. Pitcher published his formula broadcast, thus echal- lenging the attention of physicianseverywhere. This was a great innovation upon those who believed that REMINISCENCES OF Ep!ToR OF GODEY’s LADY’s BooK : In the editor’s New-Year’s talk with your readers in referring to the authors whose names have, from time to time, graced the pages of the Lady’s Book, and thus become anore strongly intrenched in the affections of a vast multitude than printer’s ink has power to make them, you say: ‘* They will recall to many the thoughts of other days and other faces, and it will be remembered how their words, whether of romance, history, or poetry, stirred the soul.” To this assertion my mind and heart give a ready assent, I being among the fortunate ones who are familiar with the Book from its earliest beginning. I found it first in accumulated numbers in a private library in a small western town. An annual sub- scription had been presented to a relative of mine during the years of her girlhood, and which was con- tinued by her husband in the matronly years that succeeded. Whata blessing—what an inestimable prize its monthly coming was to this young lady and her few girl-friends in the village in which they re- sided, you may surmise when I say that it was lo- cated so near the outer bounds of civilization, only one sparsely settled State lay between it and the great, unexplored wilderness stretching across the continent to the Pacific. Without the Lady’s Book no knowledge of prevailing styles would have reached NATIVES GATHERING HERBS FOR CASTORIA. we should be content with Latin prescriptions, and of empirics who were enabled to impose upon a cred- ulous public extravagant statements respecting their remedies. But this common sense course of inform- ing us what we were giving our children, appealed so directly to intelligence, that it brought advanced physicians upon the side of piain dealing, and many of them began to prescribe Castoria in their practice. At Pharmaceutical Conventions in Boston, New York, and London, Dr. Pitcher caused his prepara- tion to be analyzed, and its therapeutic properties dis- cussed, Thus were its mer- its endorsed, and the reports published in medical jour- nals. These things added to the multitude of consum- - ers, untilat the present time, * when the second generation % of mothers are using Casto- ~ ria, its sale is almost incred- w ible. ‘The sales last year,” § said the manager, ‘‘ were ‘ about 3,000,000 bottles.” By comparison with children made feeble, nervous, and irritable by the use of pare- goric, laudanum, soothing potions, panaceas, and other dangerous morphine preparations, mothers and physicians have come to talk and write about Cas- toria with the wholesome efiect of extending a knowledge of it throughout the world. By these simple methods of professional skill, honorable deal- ing, and mercantile enterprise, has this Massachu- setts doctor won his gratifying success. THE LADY’S BOOK. ; that far-off region; and aside from assisting them in getting up tasteful toilets and the cultivation. it brought in this direction, the elevated and refining influence of its fascinating literary productions amounted, under the circumstances, almost to a liberal education. In fine, it proved in that unen- lightened region a missionary of a high order of cul- ture. Among your list of early authors that of ** Mrs. Washington Potts’ occurs. My memory is that she Was not an author, but that she and her inimitable * Aunt Quimby” were introduced to the readers by the graccful, charming, and humorous pen of Miss Eliza Leslie; and that the unique “ Aunt Quimby,” a character by the way worthy of Dickens’s genius, was again presented in a sequel to “ Mrs. Washing- ton Potts,” entitled “Mr. Smith,” which was pub- lished, I think, in the summer or fall of 1840. Inan article published last summer in the Century on the early writers of the country, I was surprised to find Miss Leslie’s name omitted. No author of her time was more popular, and it has often occurred to me that though the present age is so prolific in books, it would be a good paying investment to republish her stories in book form. That they would find hosts of readers, I think, is beyond question. S. M. HaypDEN.

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300 OUR ARM CHAIR. a INTERESTING TO THE READERS OF THIS MAGAZINE. We are constantly experiencing difficulty in forwarding the Magazine to people who are care- less when sending us their address; we have on file at this office letters that have contained money that give the town address, but fail to give the state or county. To cite one instance, we have a letter addressed from Washington, re- questing us to send the Lady’s Book for one year. As there are 47 Washingtons in the U.&S., it is dificult for us to determine which Washington to forward the Magazine to, and as we cannot afford the time to correspond to the 47 Washing- tons, to find out where this person resides, and as the P. O. mark on the envelope was too indis- tinct to be deciphered, we are left in doubt, and must wait xnother communication from tke au- thor of the letter. Again, we have money that has been inclosed in envelopes, without any ac- companying direction, even failing to give any address. Too much care cannot be taken by writers in writing plainly their name, the town, cent stamp, one full-size Cut Paper Pattern from | any design illustrated in the book. The furnish- ing of a Cut Paper Pattern of your own selection | is original with this Magazine, and as no other | Magazine published has had the temerity to offer, | its readers such a proposition, we trust that you will appreciate the fact that in these pat- terns alone during the year you will receive | more in value than the price you paid for the Magazine: and we trust that, to avoid all future delays in forwarding the pattern all those who wish us to make their selection, will notify us, upon the receipt of this, that it is your de- sire that we forward the pattern each month with your Magazine, unless you choose to make your own selection. TO OLD SUBSCRIBERS. One old subscriber writes: ‘‘Won’t you please leave out those horrid advertisements?” Another, | of advertising pages in Godey’s.” | contrast. county, and state address; also the number of | fact that any medium that is a demonstrated suc- their P. O. box, if they have one; also, it should be remembered that when a change of address for the Magazine is desired, we should be no- tified in advance, as our books are mailed reg- ularly from the 9th to the 12th of each month, so that any request for change of address should be received not later than the 5th of the month. In reference to our cut Paper Patterns, we tried to make ourselves fully understood in the original offer in our Prospectus. We proposed in it to give every subscriber a full-size cut Paper Pattern each month, and we desire to fulfil that promise to the very letter. After the issuing of the proposition, however, we were in receipt of many requests from our subscribers for patterns of the different designs illustrated in our book; and in response to these numerous requests, we made the additional proposition that every’ pur- chaser of the book who desired to make their own selection of patterns each month, we would allow them to do so, if they would forward to us the coupon furnished in the book, and two cents to cover postage; this has made it necessary to ask of all our readers who do not wish to make their own selection, to drop us a postal card, notifying us that they desire us to make the selection of a pattern each month for them; and we shall ap- preciate it as a favor, if each one, as they read this notice, will inform us if we shall make the selection of pattern for them, that they may re- ceive their pattern regularly with their Maga- zine. To those who desire to make their own selection of a pattern, we would say that we pro- pose to furnish, when the coupon is forwarded, and plainly filled out, and accompanied by a two- | cess attracts the attention of advertisers. | price asked. ‘Allow me to congratulate you on the fine array Behold the The author of the latter is evidently a person of some experience. It is a well proven As illustration of this we have but to point to such metropolitan journals as the New York Herald, New York Sun, Philadelphia Ledger, Chicago Inter-Ocean, Youth’s Companion, and of maga- zines such as Harper’s, Century, and many others. The reason is very apparent, viz., by using the columns of a publication with a large circulation the advertisers are able to bring their wares to the attention of a multitude of readers who are not able to apply to their stores in per- son, but who can and do purchase at the stores in their vicinity or by mail as directed by the advertisements in reputable publications. Thus the advertisements are an advantage to the read- ers in bringing to their attention desirable arti- cles or remedies that otherwise they might not know of. They are also of an advantage to the readers, in that the publishers are thereby assisted to produce (in consequence of their remuneration) a much better publication than would otherwise he possible for the subscription This must be patent to every one who will stop to consider. Take Godey’s Lady’s Book, for instance; its subscription price is $2 a year, or 1623 cents a month. The magazine contains 80 pages of reading matter and fashions, which would be at the rate of 2,4 mills a page, to say nothing of the steel plates, colored plates, fancy-work illustration, etc. etc. The sixteen pages of the New York Herald for two cents is also a striking illustration of this fact. Does any’ one suppose that without the assistance of the advertisements Mr. Bennett could furnish his read two not of a is ot By | you read crea: and | not] but : phia Tho D.I for } year deli cons auth whi autk last, ter. of w fuln and ness con: thos care lica’

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ach ld, igo zi ny by ge eir ers er- res the jus ud- 10t OUR ARM CHAIR, 301 readers wiih the news coutained in his paper for two cents? So long us the advertisements do not encroach upon the legitimate reading epace of a publication its readers should rejvice, as it is one of the surest indications of prosperity. By looking over the back numbers of Godey’s you will see that we have not decreased the story reading matter of the book, but with the in- creased advertising have added new departments and more pages to the magazine. Thus you do not lose by the appearance of the advertisements, but share the profits obtained from them. @uR Beok TABLE. The Lutheran Publication Society, Philadel- phia have published a book entitled “Life Thoughts for Young Women,” by M. Rhodes, D. D., whose companion work “Life Thoughts for Young Men,” was so favorably received three years ago. The book consists of twelve lectures delivered on successive Sabbath evenings to the congregation whom it is the pleasure of the author to serve. The subjects selected are those which call for attention in these times, and the author has but one aim in view from first to last, namely, the exaltation of woman’s charac- ter. One lecture shows how the Christianity of women aids their progress, another their use- fulness in the home, and another their faults and perils, while still another shows the sacred- ness of the marriage vow, by so many lightly considered. The book is of deep interest to those entering ypon life’s trials, and should be carefully read. For sale by the Lutheran Pub- lication Society, Philadelphia. Price, $1.25. “The Boys of Thirty-five” is the title of a new book hy Edward H. Elwell, editor of the “Portland Transcript,” Lee & Shepard, publish- ers, Boston. The book is a series of incidents and revelations, in which the heroes attract our attention by their wild escapades, their deeds of daring, their divers forms of amusements and occupations. One cannot help feeling, after reading the book, that “the boys of thirty-five ” enjoyed themselves much better than the boys of the present time. For sale by E. Claxton & Co., Philadelphia, We have received from the authoress, Mrs. Lizzie E. Cotton, “ Bee Keeping for Profit,” a work devoted to the culture of bees, and show- ing from actual experience how bees can be made a valuable source of revenue, and a busi- ness safe, pleasant and profitable. The manage- ment here given was invented by the authoress, J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, have just published a new novel entitled “Marah,” by Rosa Vertner Jeffrey, author of Woodburn, etc. The book has several love stories inter- ‘woven in it, and a plot different from the usual every-day style adopted so generally. It is bright, truthful, and of intense interest; the heroine battles through many dark and dreary days, but is at last rewarded for her constancy and devotion by gaining the life devotion of her own true love. It is well worth reading. Price, $1.25. New cook books are always fascinating to the housekeeper, and the one before us, entitled “ Hy- gienic Cookery,” by Susanna W. Dodds, M. D., published by Fowler & Wells, N. Y., is especially so. The authoress sets forth the why and where- fore of cookery, and devotes a large portion of the work to those articles which the hygienic re- former advocates as essential to good blood, strong bodies, and vigorous minds. Dr. Dodd says for herself that “the object of the work is to enable health seekers to furnish their tables with food that is wholesome, and at the same time palatable.” For sale by J. B. Lippincott & Co. Price, $2. They have also recently published “ Parker’s Inner Life of Christ,” 3 vols., each $1.50; ‘“ But- ler’s Bible Work;’ 2 vols., each $5; “Meyer’s Commentaries,” per vol., $3; ‘“Godet’s Com- mentary on Luke,” $2.50. T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, have in press and will issue in a few days a cheap edition of Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth’s last and greatest work, ‘Ishmael; or in the Depths,” (originally published in the “‘ New York Ledger,” under the name of “Self-made; or, Out of the Depths,” proving itself to be the most popular story ever issued in that paper), in one large duodecimo volume of 718 pages, paper cover, with a portrait of Mrs. Southworth, and at the unprecedentedly low price of seventy-five cents a copy, making it the largest as well as the cheapest copyright novel ever issued in book form at such a low price, and at which rate “it must “ommand thousands of readers, for Mrs. Soutkworth stands at the head of all female writers, and there is no Americau authoress whose writings receive such immediate and gen- | and as she is engaged in raising honey for market, | it shows that she thoroughly understands about what she has treated. That the book has reached its second edition, is proof of the favor with which it has been received. , ‘*who has been there before.” eral circulation, everywhere. ‘*©A Bachelors Talks about Married Life, and Things Adjacent,” by William Aikman, D.D., is the title of a book ju+t published by Fowler & Wells, 753 Broadway, New York. This book does not come from an inexperienced man, but one He lives, in his book, in the familiar companionship of a brother’s home, and he is somewhat critical aud nice in his

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302 expectations of the good and the comfortable, of | the proper refined, and the elevating in home life. ‘rue topics which engage attention show that his point of view in the observation of home is that which is appreciated by the majority of those who have any sincere ideas on the subject. It is just a book to be placed in the hands of young people nearing the bourne of marriage. For sale by J. B. Lippinectt & Co, 715 and 717 Mar- ket Street, Philadelphia. Fowler & Wells have also just published a book entitled Mothers and Daughters, by Mrs. E. G. Cook, M.D. sisterly book, written in a clear, plain, yet deli- ente style. It treats of topics on which hinge more of the world’s woe than it has an idea of, because so much of silent suffering finds no voice except the sigh; no record except in pale cheeks and broken constitutions. den, discourage, and hinder a man than the chro- nie ill health of his wife and daughters? We fancy if husbands and fathers could appreciate the worth, to them and their families, of the contents of this book, thousands of copies would find their way to the hands of wives, and would constitute a present more valuable than silks, furs, or diamonds. For sale by J. B. Lippincott & Co., Puiladelphia. Price $1.50. ~~ We are in receipt, from the various prominent seed houses throughout the country, of a great variety of catalogues and circulars, and some of them very pretty, too, with their colored plates and numerous illustrations, and we should judge quite an education in much that pertains to flor- iculture, horticulture, acd agriculture. We cannot afford the spaee to review these publications, though some of them amount to quite a book, containing forty or fifty pages. By referring to the numerous advertisements of Seedsmen in this number, however, you will see that these catalogues may be had on applic:tion by mentioning where you saw the advertisement. vie & Co., 81 Rose Street, N. Y., isa republica- tion from Godey’s Lady’s Book. If its success in book form equals that of its appearance in the Magazine, its publishers will enjoy as many smiles as the readers of the lectures. On the principle of a little nonsense now and then, ete. etc., the book will find many readers, and par- ticularly as, unlike many books of this character, its tone is not vulgar nor irreverent, but simply mirth giving. Price, in paper cover, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. | lous disease is established. OUR ARM CHAIR. | DEATH IN HIS FAVORITE ROBE. | By R. V. Pierce, M.D., Author of ‘‘ The Peo- This is a sensible, motherly, | ple’s Common Sense Medical Adviser’’ (over 900 pages, nearly 300 illustrations, price, $1.50, post-paid), and Founder of the World’s Dispensary and Invalid’s Hotel, Buffalo, N. Y., with branch at No. 3 New Oxiord Street, London, W. C., England. The liver is the great depurating, or blood- cleansing, organ of the human system. When this great ‘‘ housekeeper’ of our health be- comes torpid or inactive, a vast amount of nox- ious poisons accumulate in the blood. Nature | tries to work off and free the system of this poison, through other channels and organs, and largely through the exhalations thrown off from the lungs in respiration. The blood | is, in a measure, oxygenated and purified by What can more sad- | the lungs, but, in this effort and overwork, these organs become irritated, and a nervous cough, bronchitis, and consumption itself, are the natural results. The tissues of the lungs being irritated by poisonous matters in the blood circulating through these most delicately constructed organs, scrofulous humors of the blood are invited to the lungs, and local scrofu- The general health becomes broken down, and the person feels languid, weak, faint, drowsy, and confused. Pain in the right side, in the region of* the liver, and sympathetic pain in the shoulders | and spine, and through the lungs, is generally | this only is aimed at. experienced. The patient soon has a dry, hacking cough. Minute tubercles are deposited E . | in the lungs, and perhaps exist for months un- that a careful reading of them would amount to | a | known to their victim. Nothing is done to remove tubercles by the ordinary treatment. Cough is only a symptom of the disease, yet There is no rational | way to cure consumption except to purify the | blood. Set the liver actively at work, and the foul poisons accumulated in the blood, and which eat out the vital machinery, as it were, are gradually eliminated from the system. The poisonous matters in the blood, which cause | the tubercles, are thereby thrown off and vi- Mrs. Rasher’s Curtain Lectures, by J. S, Ogil- | | tality supported, the system nourished and built up, and the development of tubercles thus prevented. Remove the blood-poison, by restoring the action of the liver, and the cough, only a symptom of the real disease, is relieved. You thereby strike at the root of incipient consumption and cure the patient. My Go.pen Mepicat Discovery will not raise the dead, nor will it cure consumption when the lungs are almost wholly consumed, but it will, as has been demonstrated in hundreds of cases, positively arrest pulmonary consumption

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i. e Peo- (over price, ‘orld’s uffalo, xford blood- When h be- * nox- ature * this cans, rown blood d by york, ‘vous , are ungs the itely the rofu- alth feels sed, the ders ally ry, ited un- to nt. yet nal the the und re, "he se vi- nd les by rh, d. nt —~l( i( wh se en it of 2 OUR ARM CHAIR. 303 and restore health and strength, if it be ad- ministered in the early stages of the disease. From its wonderful power over this terrible disease, when first offering this now celebrated remedy to the public, I thought favorably of calling it my ‘‘Consumption Cure ;”’ but I finally decided not to apply to it a name which might mislead the public, and prevent its use in other diseases for which it is also so admirably adapt- ed. In addition to pectoral and alterative activé principles, it possesses wonderful nutri- tive properties, which peculiarly adapt it to the wants of the consumptive and scrofulous. The nutritive properties of cod-liver oil are trifling when compared with those possessed by the *‘Discovery.”’ It is astonishing to see how it builds up the solid muscle and increases the flesh and weight of those whose systems are reduced below the usual standard of perfect health by wasting disease. BLEEDING FRoM Luncs.—W. M. Morris, Esq., 35 Center Street, Indianapolis, Ind., says: ‘‘Some time ago my brother, Mr. L. C. Morris, had hemorrhage of the lungs and catarrh, and your ‘Golden Medical Discovery’ and ‘ Catarrh Remedy’ completely cured him.”’ No. 162,961.— ConsuMPTION TESTIMONIAL will refer them to me, I will give them ample proof in my condition. May God ever bless, guard, and protect you, and spare you many, | many years to come, is my earnest prayer.”’ Maria C. Samira, Cripplebush, Ulster County, | N. Y., writes: ‘‘I feel in duty bound to send my heartfelt thanks to you for your kind ad- vice and the wonderful cure obtained, after using five bottles of your ‘Golden Medical Dis- | sumption and liver complaint. covery,’ for I was pronounced by physicians to | have consumption, but to-day I feel better than I have in years and need no more medicine at present. I wish every sufferer knew the vir- tue there is in your wonderful medicine. I will do all I can to let the afflicted know of your success.’’ Consumption. — Mrs. THos. Van _ SICKLEN, Brighton, Ont., says: ‘‘I have long felt it my duty to acknowledge to you what your ‘ Golden Medical Discovery’ and ‘Pleasant Purgative Pellets’ have done for me. These medicines cannot be too highly praised. They almost raised me from the grave. I had three brothers and one sister die of consumption, and I was speedily following after them. I had severe cough, pain, copious expectoration, and other alarming symptoms, and my friends all thought I had but a few months to live. At this time I was persuaded to try your ‘ Discovery,’ and the first bottle acted like magic. Of course I continued on with the medicine, and as a re- sult I gained rapidly in strength. My friends were astonished. When I commenced the use of your medicines, six years ago, I weighed but 120 and was sinking rapidly. I now weigh 135, and my health continues perfect. I have a copy of ‘The People’s Common Sense Medical Adviser,’ and neither money nor friends could ever induce me to part with it.’’ CoNSUMPTION RESULTING FROM ‘‘ Liver Com- PLAINT.’’—THOMAS RULAND, Esq., East Benton, Lackawanna County, Pa., writes: ‘‘ Three years ago I was a dreadful sufferer from con- I exhausted the skill of several physicians and was quite discouraged. Doctors and friends alike thought I must die. I had a dreadful cough and raised a considerable amount of blood and matter; besides, I was so very thin and so weak that I could scarcely walk around the house. At this | time I read in the New York Weekly of the won- UnEQuaLLEp.—S. P. Buarn, Sherman, Texas, | says: ‘‘I have never found anything to equal your celebrated ‘Golden Medical Discovery’ for all diseases of the lungs.”’ 830 Seventh Street, N. E., Washington, D. C., writes; ‘I hope you will pardon my delay in | not writing you of the arrival of your priceless ‘Golden Medical Discovery.’ I am now on the last. bottle you sent me. you for your kindness in sending it when you did. My cough has ceased, and I feel like a new woman in every way. I have given birth to a little girl since last I wrote, and had it not been for your valuable medicine, my children would to-day have been motherless. As long as I am able to purchase it, I shall never be without it. If any one doubts the curative qualities contained in the ‘ Discovery,’ if you May Heaven bless | derful cures performed by your ‘Golden Medi- cal Discovery.’ I procured the medicine named and began using it in connection with the ‘Pleasant Purgative Pellets.’ Under their in- | fluence I recovered my health completely. I Consumption CurED.—Mrs. E. A. Rivineton, would also say that your ‘ Discovery’ cured my grandchild of heart disease.”’ UNPARALLELED Success.—In the ‘‘ People’s Common Sense Medical Adviser’’ (which costs only $1.50, postage prepaid), a complete course | of medical treatment for consumption is sug- | | gested, which has, in a large experience, been attended with a success heretofore unparalleled in the history of this distressingly fatal malady, Or send 9 cents in postage stamps for a Treat- ise on Chronic Diseases of Respiratory Organs. Address Wortp’s DispeNSARY MEDICAL ASss0- ciation, Buffalo, N. Y. |

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ive) > — ARCHITECTURAL. - KircHe Ccoser naire 4-O416°0 PARLOR l¢-627§+0° QINING- ROOM S4+Cxn 16-8 moe Fr RST-FLOOR- PLAN cvameer ly MO ale-o CHAMBER . F2-CeVHro SECOND-FLOOR - PLAN AN ENGLISH STYLE HOUSE. Drawn expressly for Gopry’s Lapy’s Book, by Isaac H. Hobbs & Son, Architects, No. 520 Walnut Street, Philadelphia. The above design is to be built at Merchant- ville, New Jersey. It is to be built of brown stone, gables filled in with cut slate, and roof laid with Chapman’s slate, presenting a comfor- table and pleasing exterior. Inside, the rooms are large and well ventilated, titted up with heaters, gas, bath-room and closets. Principal rooms and main stairway in hard wood; all wood to have natural finish in linseed oil. timated cost $5000 complete. Hobbs’ Architecture of 123 designs of resi- dences, post free, to any address, on receipt of $3.50; also Hobbs’ Catalogue of 18 designs of houses for 35 cents.

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GODEY’S FASHIONS. FOR DESCRIPTION SEE FASHION DEPARTMENT.

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rsepaic > \ me ou ee B ” —s. WAAR. ~ L ae, wan! wits! ween! RRRARE REE BRA a ds eo sey Pr A _

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Vol.

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oou = — ae Fig. 5 — eS For description see Fashion Department,

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Fi Fig. 11. == g For description see Fashion Department.

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ai Se lk @ "et “By ‘Ns Zor description see Fashion Department. m6

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For description see Fashion Department. ba) ae & vig § ‘Ma 1 37 BSc lk "et 3s

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318. For description see Fashion Department

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| Fig. 3 For description see Fashion Department

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For description see Fashion Department. Fig. 29. Fig. 28. Fig. 27.

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ee For description see Work Department.

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=o os ay. 2 2 ge $22. Yor description sea Work Department.

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WEST Eile UL | : ;

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MAY BELLS RINGING. (MAIGLOCKCHEN’S LAUTEN.) oO HEINRICH SIEWERT, OP, 67. St a tempo.

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Q ™“ CHR WH mie Bot HP _ MAY BELLS RINGING. >con espressione. > > epiu mosso. > 2d. time. ans od Published in sheet form, 35 cts., by WM. H. BONER & CoO., agts. No. 1102 Chestnut Street, Phila.

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«t¢NONPAREIL VELVETEEN Received the only Medal awarded at the recent International Exhibition at Amsterdam (Holland). GROUPE No 2 CLASSE_NE “There are several brands of this fabric, the ‘NONPAREIL,’ being the best known. It is oe and thoroughly dyed, and from some secret process in the dyeing, holds its color and tone until completely worn out—increasing, instead of losing, its lustre and ‘bloom’ with wear. We show suits of these velveteens, that were made up and placed on lay Sgeres three years ago. These have been exposed to constant heat, as well as strong light continuously, and donot yet show signs of fading. So great is the improvement in the ‘NONPAREIL?’ that even the most delicate hues are being used for evening dresses. The ‘NONPAREIL’ is the only brand that is warranted both by the importers as well as retailers, so that it is the safest to buy for any purpose.” MARY ANDERSON uses the NONPAREIL VELVETEEN, and writes as below regarding it: as Rae Prvhanet ile Also, MADAME JUDIC says :—“YOUR NONPAREIL VELVETEEN IS ADORABLE.” i i Be || See that the name and | trade mark is stamped on the back of every | heme | 4 me TO BE HAD AT RETAIL FROM EVERY FIRST-CLASS HOUSE IN AMERICA. gt 12)